


A Tale of Two Dragons

by Belisarius55



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dragon Riders, Drama, F/F, F/M, Family Bonding, M/M, Recovery, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Incest, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 189,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28011243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belisarius55/pseuds/Belisarius55
Summary: The Dance of Dragons was one of the most devastating wars in Westerosi history. In order to achieve victory over her half-brother, Rhaenyra Targaryen allowed her son Jacaerys Velaryon to call for illegitimate descendants of House Targaryen to master dragons and ride them to war. In the original timeline, four succeeded. This time, six will succeed. Enter: Maegor and Gaemon Waters.
Comments: 120
Kudos: 68





	1. Gaemon I

**Gaemon I**

The sea was gray, and the waves strong. The small skiff was buffeted mightily by their passing. Its occupants scurried back and forth along the prow, checking their nets for fish. From what Gaemon could tell, it appeared their haul had been a decent one so far. Dumping the caught fish into barrels stored in the base of the boat, they worked quickly. Judging by the sun's position (or at least what he could glimpse of it through the clouds) it appeared that they had several hours left out at sea. _Maegor is likely already ready to return to port_ , he thought with an internal grin. _Just as I am ready to be released from my tasks for the day._ Grimacing, he lifted the heavy clay container from the floor and carried it gingerly down the steps. Reaching the inn's first floor, he turned, taking a back exit, not wishing for the guests in the main room to be privy to the contents of the privy in his hands. Smiling at his own witticism, he continued out the back door.

Years of this thankless work had trained Gaemon well in the art of moving quickly without any spills. The contents of the pot itself were enough to dissuade him from spilling it, but suspecting he needed extra encouragement, Malda the innkeeper's wife had been generous with her beatings in order to ensure that no such spills occured. According to Gaemon's uncle, Malda had been stout even during his mother's childhood, and the years had not been kind to her. She had grown enormously fat during her years of relative opulence (at least for a member of the small folk), and what teeth she once possessed had fled with the remnants of her youthful vigor. Recently she had taken to sitting near the hearth, on a chair that protested loudly every time she graced it with her arse. Gaemon had taken to placing bets on how many days it would take until the chair would collapse with the other employees of the inn. Given how large the pot had grown, he was beginning to seriously consider loosening or even removing one of the nails that held the ramshackle piece of furniture together. So far, he had refrained from doing so, simply because the other employees would suspect him of doing just that the minute it collapsed.

Reaching the base of the hill, Gaemon carefully tossed the contents of the chamber pot over the cliffside, watching the piss soar magnificently through the air before splashing into the waves below. Turning around, he retraced his steps back to the inn. Once inside, he went back up the stairs, entering the room, and returned the chamberpot to its rightful place in the corner. Leaving quickly and closing the door behind him, he almost ran over Melyssa, the youngest of the inn's whores.

"Seven hells Gaemon! If I didn't know better I'd think you blind!" Melyssa said, as she gave him a friendly shove. "Are you really so foolish to make such a mistake? Or are you simply that eager to be the first of my customers this evening?"

Gaemon grinned. "We both know that's all you've been dreaming about since I last graced you with my presence. A young, beautiful dragonseed warming your bed is far superior to the usual Pentoshi fishmonger I would guess."

Melyssa raised a pale blonde eyebrow. "Still continuing the dragonseed lies Gaemon? It's really rather sad. Based on your looks I'd say I have several pints more of the dragon in me than you."

Gaemon grinned wickedly. "On that count, I would agree with you. Sadly those pints would not be found in your veins, Melyssa."

He was rewarded with another shove. "I ought to slap you. Instead, I think I may actually charge you one of these days. Perhaps I'll take that dragon of yours as interest."

Gaemon resisted the urge to wince. He really wished she'd stop speaking so freely about the dragon dangling around his neck. _She should know better, especially after that last incident_.

Instead, he grinned. "We both know you will never charge me, as only I can make that cold heart of yours flutter just a bit." He turned to walk away, but decided against it. Instead, he turned quickly to grab her by her shoulders and plant a kiss on her lips. Suppressing a squeak, Melyssa instead drew her arms around him, responding more fully to his sudden embrace. He was about to consider finding a more secluded location when he heard Alyssa clear her throat.

"Hands off the merchandise Gaemon. Melyssa needs to get that arse of hers downstairs and earn. Unless you wish to pay, get to work."

Pulling away, he gave Melyssa a wink. "Until we meet again, _Lady Melyssa_." Without a word, she responded with a wink of her own and hurried down the steps.

While on his way back down the mountain to empty the last of the chamberpots, the Seven had deemed it fitting to allow the rainstorm that had been threatening to begin all day to make good on its threat. Heavy drops poured from the heavens, soaking the path, the stones, and most unfortunately, Gaemon himself. He resisted the urge to quicken his pace, remembering well his last fall on one of these excursions. It had taken a week to beat the smells out from his clothing on a rock. Taking the path back, the hair on his neck rose. A deafened crack of thunder shook the sky above, and the waves began to pound the shore in earnest. Lightning lit the dark evening sky. In response to the thunder, Gaemon could hear the distant roars of Dragonstone's dragons, responding to the storm.

 _Marvelous creatures_ , he smiled as he thought to himself. _My birthright_ , came another voice, unbidden. _If only I could command such a creature_. _I could burn all the chamber pots of the world to ash_. _None would doubt my parentage then_. His grandmother and grandfather had been reluctant to tell him about his father the moment he first asked about him. He could see the sadness in their eyes, mixed with what he had come to understand as fear. _They fear for me if I try to claim what is mine_. _My mother lay with a dragon once, and I am his son_. His mother had died birthing him, according to his grandmother. Originally they had thought to raise Gaemon without any knowledge of his true parentage. That hope had died the day Gaemon had found a gold dragon in the box his grandparents kept his mother's belongings in. Ever since, he had taken to carrying that coin in a small leather pouch around his neck, as a reminder of his heritage. _You are born of the seed of the dragon, Gaemon_. His grandfather had told him. _Only the most blessed families on this island can claim as much_. Gaemon sneered. _Blessed my arse_. _I'd be whipped, or worse, have my head struck off if I traipsed into Dragonstone's citadel proclaiming such things._ When he was younger, he had prayed- even dreamed- of his father coming to fetch him. He had eventually managed to force his father's identity from his grandparents. _Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince_. What a father he had! _Dragonrider, brother to a king, husband to the Prin-Queen._

Word had spread like dragonfire throughout the village the day Princess Rhaenyra had been crowned. Most on the island had taken the news well; the Princess had lived on the island for years and was well-loved by many on the island. Others had simply nodded, and quietly began to sharpen their swords, knowing war was to come.

Gaemon remembered his initial excitement at the thought of war. _If my father will not claim me, I will earn his recognition through a great feat of arms_. He had thought to himself. But war had not come, not at first. The only news that filtered out of Dragonstone's citadel seemed to suggest that the Queen was looking for friends on the continent, powerful lords and ladies who she could count on if the time came for swords to be raised for her claim to the Iron Throne. Gaemon himself had been part of the crowd that watched the Queen's eldest sons depart from the citadel, one flying north, the other south. _Riding Vermax and Arrax_ , he had whispered to himself. It had been a solemn day when word had spread around the village that only one prince had returned. Word had come down from the citadel that Prince Lucerys had been slain most treacherously on his way back to Dragonstone. Gaemon found himself mourning the loss of Arrax more. He had quickly recited the remaining dragons in his mind. Gaemon had long since compiled a list of every dragon on the island, as part of his fantasies of claiming his birthright. To his knowledge, only Vermithor, Silverwing, and Seasmoke remained unridden, if the local bards and guards could be believed. _Aside from those never tamed, he thought: The Cannibal, the Grey Ghost, and the Sheep Stealer_.

He turned to face the Dragonmont, still sending smoke towards the heavens. _Somewhere above, deep within the crags and caves, lurked three dragons_. Gaemon would be lying to himself if he denied ever considering climbing to look for those dragons. Once he had climbed far above his village, taking shepherds paths towards the rocky slopes and beyond. He knew from local tales that the Cannibal lived in a large cave above Dragonstone's citadel, and it had taken him the better part of the day to climb to where he believed it lived. He had kept his courage until the smell of sulfur and smoke was nearly overwhelming, but when he had heard a low hiss he had bolted down the slope. It was only later a shepherd had told him that the mountain often hissed and sighed as it released its heat from deep within the earth. His cheeks had burned at that revelation. He had been _certain_ the Cannibal had stirred at his presence. Instead, it appeared he had taken flight for no reason at all. Turning away from the Dragonmont in disgust, he walked the rest of the way back to the inn, entering through the back door once more to take shelter from the inside, he put the thoughts of dragons out of his mind. From the hearth, Malda beckoned him to come sit at a nearby table, where a bucket of freshly caught fish awaited.

"Tis time for the evening's pottage, Gaemon. Work quickly enough and I may give you a bowl for yourself, as useless as you may be."

Gaemon nodded, thanking her for her profound generosity. Once he had turned away, he smirked, knowing she'd spend the next several moments thinking about his words, and weighing whether she should accept them as true or not. _She'll probably decide on them being true, as she never was very adept at reading sarcasm._ He took a seat in order to begin his work.

Piling the day's catch in front of him, he settled into the familiar routine to prepare each trout for its eventual destination in the pottage. First, he ran his knife along each fish, against the scales, removing them as best he could. Cutting each fish along their belly, he removed their innards gingerly so as to keep them from rupturing. Scooping out the dark membrane in the cavity, he then cut the head from each fish, and pulled the dorsal fins from their back, tossing each unwanted element within the bucket. Taking what remained, he then found the backbone of each fish, cutting the flanks of each fish off to filet them. These he chopped into smaller cubes in order to begin work on the pottage. Cutting three onions, several potatoes, and some celery, he added them along with the fish into the awaiting ceramic container over the fire.

Placing the lid on, he turned and began work on the parsley sauce that Malda would inevitably demand be served alongside the fish. After melting some butter in a skillet, he stirred in some flour and milk, then added the tiniest sprinkle of salt (a real luxury for most smallfolk). After allowing it to boil, he stirred the mixture for a few minutes. When it appeared done, he sprinkled in some fresh parsley. Setting the skillet on the edge of the hearth to keep its contents warm, he took the bucket of fish viscera and went outside. As he carried the bucket, it left a slight trail of blood in the dirt, bringing back some rather unpleasant memories.

He could still remember the stench of cheap wine on the Braavosi sailor's breath as he pushed him to the ground outside the inn.

"The whore said you had a gold dragon boy" he slurred through his thick accent. "I think a man like me could make better use of it than a little _shit_ such as yourself. Give it to me. Give it to me and I won't have to cut you."

He had drawn a long knife from the belt around his distinctive Braavosi breeches. Gaemon was afraid. It was fair too late for there to be anyone outside, only the drunk or the destitute would be out, and they were unlikely to help. He tore the leather from around his neck, tossing it at the man's feet. As the Braavosi bent slowly and drunkenly to pick it up, the fear inside Gaemon ebbed away, only to be replaced by a white hot, burning rage.

 _My mother's dragon. All that remains of my birthright. How am I to prove my existence? If he takes it, I'll have neither the looks or the evidence to prove my heritage._ Taking the fileting knife he always carried from its sheath, he knew what he had to do. His first enraged, but inexperienced slash caught the Braavosi on the side of his face, cutting his ear and trailing down the side of his head. He screamed, falling to one knee and clutching his face. Gaemon's next slash was more carefully aimed, drawing a deep red cut across the sailor's neck, as blood sprayed dramatically in pulsing beats from the deep gash. It reminded Gaemon of the waves beating the rocks along the shore, with its rhythmic spraying. The man made to scream, but this time, only a low gurgle could be heard. After what seemed like an eternity, but what must have only been a few seconds, the man fell face first into the mud of the street, motionless but for a few erratic death throes.

Gaemon gave him a kick to make sure he was truly dead, then quickly snatched the leather pouch from the street. Tying it back around his neck, he set to work. It took him the better part of an hour to drag the body to the cliffside, tossing it over where it was quickly subsumed by the powerful waves. _A fate fitting for one so bold as to cross a dragon,_ he had thought to himself, as he began to shiver. It was then he realized he had truly taken a life. He had suddenly vomited over the edge of the cliff, heaving for several minutes until he was shaking with exhaustion. Standing, he realized he had much more work to do. He retraced his steps, taking care to drag a branch over the drag marks erratically so as to mask them in the mud. Eventually reaching the street, he found it deserted, as he suspected. He had poured water over the pool of congealed blood and mixed the mud over the spot until there was little evidence of the fight. So long as there was little evidence, none were likely to bother to investigate the likely murder of a Braavosi sailor. Many such murders happened on Dragonstone when sailors came to port, either looking to rob, rape, or fight. Gaemon knew the important part was simply to mask the evidence to an extent that a search for a murderer wasn't immediately warranted. Lastly, he had taken a long walk down to the stoney beach far below the town, using a shepherd's path. Swimming in the freezing cold water, he had washed the mud and blood from his clothes before returning, exhausted and shivering, to the cottage of his grandparents, in order to collapse in front of the hearth.

Staring down once more at the bucket of fish viscera, he once more felt sick to his stomach. This time he successfully resisted the urge to vomit and instead dumped it into the pile of refuse that was outside of town. Turning around, he walked quietly in the rain, absentmindedly turning the gold dragon in his fingers. _My father would likely tell me there was nothing to be ashamed of. The man was scum, and deserved to die. He had threatened the dragon!_ Another voice surfaced. _Are you truly a dragon? You don't look like a dragon, you aren't the master of a dragon, and most importantly, none have come forth to claim you as one._ Gaemon scowled. One way or another he would claim what was his. Deep down, he knew himself to be a dragon. _No, he thought. Enough of such metaphors. I am a Targaryen by blood and by deed. I will prove it with my deeds. When this war of ravens ends and the war of swords begins, I will fight to prove it. I have killed before and will do so again. Only then will my father recognize I am his. This I so swear_. Reaching the inn, he left the bucket outside in the rain to be washed by the torrential downpour.

Once inside, he took a seat by the door in order to allow his eyes to acclimate. He thought it likely that the pottage required a few minutes to cook, so he went to the cellar in order to help Wat, the innkeeper, bring a keg of ale upstairs in order to prepare for the evening's guests. Reaching the cellar, he found Wat sampling a bit of the evenings wares, as was his want.

"Malda would be ever so pleased to see you approve of the selection for the evening, master."

Gravelly chuckling could be heard from within the wooden mug as Wat took a swig. "Tis a good draught as always _Lord Gaemon_ " (Wat took great pleasure in this nickname he had devised, after Gaemon had insisted on his parentage particularly emphatically one afternoon). "Might ye like a taste?"

Gaemon decide he had nothing better to do, so he took a seat beside Wat on the bench. Wat was a big man, heavy from his years of drinking and eating heartily. He had lost most of his hair, only keeping some grey bushy eyebrows and some towards the back of his head. Setting his tankard aside, he dipped a second tankard in the barrel, filling it fully before handing it to Gaemon.

"We thank thee, _Ser Wat_ , for thy leal service to our person." Gaemon said with a smirk. If Wat were to have his fun, he might as well make the most of it. His response elicited another hearty chuckle from the innkeeper.

"At times, you mimic our noble lords well enough I fear I might mistake you for one. How long do we have until the pottage is ready to be eaten, Gaemon? I can only remain hidden so long before Malda sends the hounds for me."

Gaemon took a deep swig, relishing the familiar warmth that always accompanied such drinks. "I'd wager that we have enough time to finish our drinks before we must needs return to the surface."

Wat nodded. "Best get to it then, m'lord."

As expected, Malda had been mightily displeased when Gaemon and Wat returned from the cellar after the majority of an hour had passed.

Carrying the keg to its customary place behind the bar, they had just finished when Melyssa approached, informing them that Malda was "starving and liable to attack one of the guests" if she "was't served a bowl of pottage right quick."

Gaemon had quickly grabbed a stack of ceramic bowls and a ladle, and began serving the fish pottage fresh, alongside a slice of bread and a spread of the parsley sauce. _A fine meal, probably the best to be found on the island, outside the citadel_. With the ferocity of the rainstorm outside, it appeared that the number of guests that would be arriving would be very few, all of them locals. After Wat's insistence, Malda allowed Gaemon to serve himself a portion of the evening's fare and begin eating. While Malda, ate by the hearth, in her customary chair (which, disappointingly, had yet to collapse and continued the thankless task of bearing her), Wat, Melyssa, Alyssa, and Gaemon had gathered around the table to eat.

"Any customers, fair ladies?" Gaemon asked with as innocent an expression as he could muster. Alyssa simply gave one of her characteristic smolders whilst Melyssa rolled her eyes before responding.

"The rain has kept any men with coin to spend further down the mountainside. The whores of the port must be making an excellent living this evening." Wat gingerly took one of her delicate hands into his own, giving it a friendly pat, whilst saying "Now now there Melyssa, envy sours even the fairest of faces. I'll not have it ruin yours."

Gaemon grinned, whilst nodding in agreement. "Such a fair face indeed, graced with features so near to our Valyrian masters. If only I had been graced with such beauty."

It was now Melyssa's turn to grin. "Even had you been so blessed, I fear you simply don't have the makings of a successful whore Gaemon. You're simply too, well, male, for my usual patrons. Perhaps you ought to take the next ship to Lys?"

Gaemon put on a thoughtful expression. "Lys is supposedly lovely. I may consider your sage advice, _Lady Melyssa_. Anything would be superior to the emptying of pisspots."

Melyssa snorted. "You're giving away your foolishness Gaemon. Anyone who has ever found themselves under a fat merchant who smells of sweat, piss, and cheap wine would prefer your job, I assure you."

Gaemon raised his hands in a gesture of acknowledgement and defeat. "Forgive me, _my lady_. I meant no offense. I am certain the realities of your work are far worse than my own. I hope you'll prove merciful enough to accept my apology." Taking her hand into his, he planted a kiss upon it in the manner he had seen nobles do previously.

Wat had been watching this entire exchange with a great deal of amusement, and finally interjected. "Bravo! _Lord Gaemon_ , were I a fair maid I'd have already been game to go for a tumble in a haystack. Sadly, methinks there is not a soul on Dragonstone who'd mistake me for a fair maid. Besides, it seems you may soon have some competition for Melyssa's favor." Wat nodded towards the four men who had entered the room.

Gaemon recognized the four immediately. "If it isn't the three kings, and their esteemed sire." He said with a smile. Rising to greet the newcomers, he beckoned them to take bowls of the pottage and have a seat at the table. The first, a man in his early forties, offered his thanks before placing a bucket full of freshly caught fish near the entrance to the cellar. Turning back to face Wat, he grinned, his deep purple eyes flashing in the fire light.

"Me n' the boys have brought you a good catch today Wat, despite the storm."

Brushing, a silver strand of hair from his eyes, Silver Denys moved to fill a bowl. He was followed quickly by his first born, named Aegon, who possessed golden hair and eyes of purple. Next was Aenys, with his lilac eyes and brown hair. Lastly was Maegor, with eyes of stormy blue and brown hair. Denys was not subtle in proclaiming his draconic blood, but his detractors claimed behind his back that the power of his seed had diminished with each son. Maegor had been blessed with little and less of the fabled looks of Valyria. He towered over everyone else in the room, including Gaemon, who had previously been the tallest in the inn.

"Careful now Maegor, we wouldn't want you hitting the ceiling beams too hard and ruining our protection from the rain. Hasn't anyone told you the last giants died before the arrival of the Andals?"

Maegor nodded, his face an imitation of stoic thoughtfulness. "Mayhaps the messenger forgot to inform me. Or mayhaps like a giant of old, I simply _ate_ him."

Gaemon chortled. "That would certainly not come as much of a surprise to me, you _vile beast_."

Maegor raised an eyebrow. "Dear Gaemon, I think you may wish to look in a mirror before throwing such words around so carelessly." To which Gaemon responded by chuckling and returning to his food.

As Silver Denys and his sons took a seat at the table, Aegon and Aenys quickly began to regale Melyssa with tales of their exploits at sea, where "they had braved many a wave and gust to bring her such delicious fish" while Denys negotiated the price for the fish with Wat, who was determined that he pay less in exchange for offering Denys and his boys a meal on the house.

Gaemon was so focused on finishing his meal that he barely took notice of the two guardsmen entering the inn. He was quickly alerted to their presence as they began to shout for ale. He rose and fetched two tankards, filling them and handing them to the guards in exchange for a few copper pieces. They fetched bowls and began to converse at the end of the table.

Gaemon had returned to his spot as one had, following a loud belch, raised a toast "to their comrade Ulf, the newest rider of Silverwing!"

Shocked, Gaemon sputtered out "The dragon?"

To which they "of course, are ye daft? The Prince of Dragonstone himself put out a call for dragonriders, claiming any who could master a dragon would be granted lands and riches and dubbed a knight!"

The other grinned. "A couple o' poor bastards tried before. 'Er Lord Commander Lord Darklyn tried mounting Seasmoke just last night. He'd finally stopped screamin a few hours ago. They said 'is burns were wicked. Damn near melted 'is armor onto his skin."

The other appeared to be pondering that image, before the grin returned to his face. "But one of our own lads did it! Of all the sots on Dragonstone, I'd have bet Ulf the White to be the last to tame a dragon. But I'd 'ave wagered wrong, for earlier today he returned, looking mighty glorious as he flew Silverwing into the keep's courtyard. True to form, he immediately requested a drink." The guard guffawed. "I was honestly surprised the man was sober enough to walk, let alone fly. Damn impressive work though. Makes me right proud one of our own managed it, instead of one of those _lords._ "

By this point it was clear that the entire table was enraptured by their tale. Gaemon was trying to keep himself from shaking. _Seven hells,_ he thought, _this is my chance! A real chance to claim my birthright!_ He turned to face the first guard who'd spoken.

"Have any other dragons been claimed?" He asked, afraid to know the answer. He was terrified he'd be told all had been mastered.

"Hugh the Hammer, the blacksmith's boy, mastered Vermithor the other night after he had had his fun roasting the Lord Massey. Damn imposing lad, that 'un."

Gaemon blinked. _That only left Seasmoke, the Grey Ghost, the Sheepstealer, and the Cannibal._ _I must needs hurry,_ he thought. _The unridden will be my best bet._ His stomach turned. There was only one dragon whose cave he knew the location of. Time was of the essence. Standing, he thanked Wat for the meal. He looked at Maegor, and an understanding passed between them.

Summoning his best grin, he spoke: "Good evening, honorable sers and ladies. I am off to tame a dragon." Those who knew him best paled.

The guards simply laughed. "Fool boy, only those with a drop 'o dragon in them can tame a dragon." The guard narrowed his eyes. "And it looks to me you've not got a single drop." Turning, he gave Melyssa a squeeze on the rump. "Seems to me this lass would have a better chance than you. At least she looks to have a drop or two."

Gaemon scowled. Without responding, he turned and left the inn, trudging off into the night. _I have a dragon to tame, and no time to lose. The fool will eat his words once I return with a dragon in tow. To try is better than to live the rest of my days emptying piss pots and being mocked. I will claim my heritage, or die trying!_ A deafening peal of thunder split the sky. The dragons roared their response from the citadel once more. Gaemon began his journey up the Dragonmont.


	2. Gaemon II

**Gaemon II**

Time was of the essence, but Gaemon could not ascend the Dragonmont without saying his goodbyes to the only family he had. It was for this reason that he found himself in front of their windswept hovel, situated in the cliffs above the town he called home. He arrived in what he assumed to be the midst of the Hour of Ghosts, which he was sure many would consider an ill-omen. _Dragons fear no shade of mortal man_ , he thought to himself with a scoff. Hesitating, Gaemon regretted for a moment that he was about to wake his grandparents from their slumber (as they likely had assumed he would stay overnight at the inn as he had not returned by the Hour of the Bat). He considered leaving them to their peaceful sleep, not troubling them with his plans. _They raised me_ , a voice emanated from within, _and you might die in these next few hours_. _Leaving them with only regrets and loss would be cold._ His mind's eye remembered the way his grandparents had described his father's treatment of his mother. _I may be a dragon, but I am not HIM._ He knocked on the door, clenching his fists as he waited. He found his hand gravitating towards the gold dragon around his neck, as it often did in times of apprehension. He forced it to return to his side, as he heard what he assumed to be his grandfather approach the door cautiously. The door creaked softly, with the wrinkled and cautious face of his grandfather appearing in the opening, clutching a candle. As recognition lit his tired eyes, the door opened more fully, and his hand beckoned him inside. Gaemon, beginning to shiver from within his soaking wet clothing, and from the relentless rain that fell from above, was only too happy to oblige.

Entering the hovel that had been his home for all his life, he took in the humble, but familiar features. The remains of a fire rested within the hearth, the embers still glowing and casting a hazy orange glow across the floor, meeting the dancing light of the candle in his grandfather's gnarled grasp. Pulling an ancient chair out from under an equally ancient table, Gaemon took a seat across from the bed his grandmother sat on, and that his grandfather had returned to. They both looked expectantly at him from where they sat. His grandfather was the first to break the silence.

"We did not expect you to return to us tonight, Gaemon. It had grown so late we thought you might have bedded down at the inn." Inquisitive eyes regarded him from under bushy, drooping eyebrows. "Does something trouble you lad? Have you come to seek our counsel?"

Gaemon sighed, and returned their gaze, making eye contact with each of them before speaking. "Earlier this evening, I was informed at the inn that Queen Rhaenyra and her firstborn, Jacaerys Velaryon, have issued a call for dragonseeds. They have promised titles and riches to any who can tame one of the unmastered dragons who have made their lairs on the island. I have come here tonight, because I intend to go and claim my birthright." His grandparents shared a knowing glance before his grandmother turned to regard him once more, her eyes saddened.

"Gaemon, we have known this day would come ever since you discovered the golden dragon amongst your mother's belongings. I, no we, prayed to the Seven that you would find reasons to stay in the village, to not risk your life pursuing such things. Your father may be a Prince, but you carry the stain of bastardy. Even if they let you within the keep, you would never be one of _them_."

His grandfather had been watching his grandmother while she spoke, but finally turned to face him once she had finished. "We knew the minute you began to carry that dragon 'round your neck that you wouldn't… no couldn't let go. Mayhaps it is the fire in your veins, or mayhaps it is simply that you were never cut out to farm, or herd, or fish, like us smallfolk have done for generations. I fear we cannot give you our blessing to go seek a dragon, but we will not seek to stop you either."

Rising, his grandparents crossed the room and embraced him. He held them tightly. His grandmother, muffled in his shoulder, spoke after a few moments. "If you are to attempt to tame a dragon, we cannot allow you to go in soaked rags. At the very least, please change, and dress _warmly_."

Gaemon smiled, _some things never change_ , he thought to himself.

* * *

Trudging up the path towards the Dragonmont, Gaemon chewed on a crust of bread his grandmother had insisted he take "for the road." He was becoming increasingly nervous, but he knew he could not turn back now. _I cannot go back, only forward. I'll never prove I have the blood of the dragon otherwise. If my father will not claim me, I will prove myself otherwise._ The rain continued unabated, hammering down, turning the well-tread stoney path to a treacherous muddy slope. Gaemon climbed carefully, watching where he stepped and making sure each step he took found purchase. _It would not do for this would-be dragonrider to slip and crack his head before he even reached his dragon_ , he thought with amusement. He was thankful to be dry, at least. His grandmother had been right to make sure he changed into a completely new set of garments that were warm and dry, still smelling of woodsmoke. He was doubly grateful for the sheepskin cloak that hung from his shoulders, keeping the majority of the rain from soaking his clothing and preventing him (hopefully) from catching a chill. Despite being warm, his hands were shaking, no matter how tightly he clenched them.

He stopped, having finally reached the top of the first hill he had to surmount. Below, he could see a few lights still burning in the village below. _Melyssa is most likely entertaining one of those soldiers by now. If she is lucky, perhaps he has already spilt his seed and fallen asleep_. Any other evening, he'd have traded roles with the soldier, convincing Alyssa or Malda that he would indeed pay his debts at some point, and that he'd be likely to eventually hand over his dragon to make good on what he owed for his several daliances with Melyssa. _One mention of the dragon and they'd have let him do as he wished. He knew that they'd have let him play that game for at least a year before demanding him to pay up, especially with Wat covering for him_. He forced himself to focus on the present. Standing at the crest of the first hill, he had reached the winding cobblestone road that led to Dragonstone's citadel. As he glanced up the road, looking for any glimpse of the imposing, dragon crafted citadel, all he could see was the rain pouring down and a winding road, lit by brief flashes of lightning. He was about to turn to resume his trek up the next hill when one such flash of lightning illuminated a man walking down the road towards him, bent over and clutching a cloak about him. Gaemon was immediately intrigued by this stranger; he couldn't imagine why anyone would be traveling at this time of night in a storm this intense. _Unless… unless they intend to do the same as I?_ The thought made him nervous, he did not wish to give away his knowledge of the cave's location to any potential rivals.

Deciding he was being exceedingly paranoid, Gaemon stopped, and waited for the stranger to approach. _I won't risk the ire of the Seven for turning away a stranger in need on a night as important as this_ , he thought to himself. After a few moments, the stranger became aware of his presence, and began to walk briskly towards him. Reaching a spot, only a few feet from him, he raised his head from beneath his hood, regarding him with a youthful, but drenched face.

"Well met my good man. Why are you traveling these roads so late, and in such a fearful storm?" He asked with an expression Gaemon could only assume was one of calculated, feigned disinterest.

If he hadn't been certain before, Gaemon was certain now that he was speaking with a lord. Now that he could see the man's accoutrements, it was clear he was well dressed, if not especially well-prepared for this particular bout of harsh weather. The lord (or knight) was wearing mail over his clothing, and over the mail he wore a white surcoat, which, although thoroughly drenched, still displayed a ring of seven golden stars, each with seven points. Gaemon tried desperately to search his memory for any memory of what House that particular coat arms signified, but he returned empty-handed.

Realizing he had remained silent for a bit too long, for the sake of courtesy, he responded: "I am bound for the Dragonmont. I have heard that the Queen's son has called for Dragonriders, and I intend to answer that call."

The knight scoffed. "I cannot stop you from pursuing your goal, but men of _higher birth_ than you have tried, and failed, to accomplish that task. I myself, Runcifer Sunglass, am committed to the same goal, and will bring honor to House Sunglass when I return, having tamed the fiercest of the remaining dragons on behalf of her majesty, Rhaenyra the first."

Gaemon had to bite his tongue to prevent any disrespectful remarks, as he was painfully aware that he was lacking a true blade at his side, unlike the knight of House Sunglass. "Do you mean to tame the Cannibal then?" Gaemon asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Of course. Although once mastered he shall receive a new and more fitting name for so noble a creature. I would be loath to allow local smallfolk and their superstitions the opportunity to grant such a creature its name for posterity." The knight's eyes narrowed. "How come you are so knowledgeable about these creatures?"

Gaemon silently cursed himself for continuing the conversation for so long. _There is no going back now. Fleeing is not an option. I must simply be honest and hope fortune lies with me._ "I too hope to tame the Cannibal. As a younger man, I believe I stumbled across his cave. I aim to return there tonight and to master him."

Sunglass raised an eyebrow. "Well it appears we both have the same goal. If you guide me to this beast's cave, I will reward you handsomely. In return, I demand as an anointed knight to be given the first attempt to master the dragon."

Gaemon frowned. Realizing that he was unlikely to receive a better offer, he extended his hand. Sunglass, after attempting (and failing) to hide his disappointment to have to shake hands with a member of the smallfolk, gripped his hand firmly, pumping it twice. Their arrangement done, they began their trek up the second, and steeper hill towards the slopes of the Dragonmont.

Their climb took several more hours, and by the time they had reached the craggy slopes of the Dragonmont, Gaemon estimated they had reached the Hour of the Wolf, or perhaps even early in the Hour of the Nightingale. The rain, once powerful and unyielding, had died down to a soft drizzle, filling the air with cold moisture that seemed to sink through even the sheepskin and chill Gaemon to the bone. It was the most peaceful time of night, where the early predawn hours were still inky black, but somehow one could sense the coming of the dawn. Gaemon considered the soft rain amidst the silence to be peaceful. That was until he realized just how _silent_ the entire area they had entered was. Dragonstone, despite being a rather grim volcanic island, was never truly silent, whether it be the distant baying of a hound, the bleating of sheep, the sound of human voices, or even the cawing of gulls. Where they had entered was well and truly silent, a detail that Gaemon found unnerving but also took to be a good sign, for it could herald the presence of a dragon.

Once they had reached the slopes of the Dragonmont itself, the grey slopes had become steeper and stonier, and the air had begun to smell of sulfur. Gaemon was able to begin retracing his steps from his earlier adventure, following a defile running between the craggy peaks that ran lazily upward until reaching the ledge he remembered from before. Reaching the ledge behind him, Sunglass hoisted himself up, grunting heavily from the effort. To Gaemon's ears, the sound of Sunglass' grunts and the scrape of mail on stone seemed deafening; he was certain they had already given themselves away. The smell of ash and sulfur was particularly strong on this ledge, and straining his eyes in the darkness, Gaemon could just barely make out the yawning mouth of a cave. Facing it head on, the entrance was far larger than he remembered. The stench of burnt meat emanated from it, and for the first time, he was _certain_ that a dragon had made its lair within. Moving as quietly as he could, he took a position outside the mouth of the cave, and waited for Sunglass to join him.

Moving quickly, Runcifer Sunglass crossed the distance between the ledge and the cave quickly, though not as quietly as Gaemon would have liked. Once he was there, he opened a satchel hung from his waist and passed him several silver stags.

Turning to Gaemon, he whispered "I will now go. Do not follow. If the Seven are kind, I will return on dragonback." Without saying another word, he entered the cave.

Gaemon looked down at the coins in his hand. The thought did occur to him that he could leave this place. He didn't have to die for his birthright, or to earn the recognition of a father who hadn't claimed him. _I don't have to… but I will. A dragon cannot be bought, no more than a storm, or a wildfire. A dragon does not fear other dragons. And most of all, a dragon does NOT step aside for lesser men._ He tossed the coins aside and entered the cave. Either way, he needed them not.

The interior of the cave stank of sulfur and charred meat far more strongly than its entrance had. It was almost overpowering. If not for the slight sound of Runcifer Sunglasses footfalls ahead, Gaemon would have no idea if he was truly taking the same path. He followed the smells and the footfalls until the darkness seemed to expand above his head, growing blacker and deeper, seemingly signifying he had stumbled into a larger cave. As he followed Sunglass, he stepped in what must have been a pool of standing water, as his foot sank deep into the cool pool.

Ahead, Sunglass cursed, whispering "I TOLD you to stay outside, you fool! I'll have your head for this you idiotic peasant!"

As the knight turned to confront Gaemon, Gaemon noticed two bright green orbs above where he imagined Sunglass was standing. He strained in the darkness to make out what they might be. He feared somehow this cavern might be far larger than he expected, and that they had somehow woken the Cannibal at the far end of the cave. _That cannot be right, for those to be its eyes, it would have to be hundreds of feet away, making this cavern so big that it would take up the majority of Dragonmont's peak_ , he thought. _So what are those things?_ One more he strained to see through the inky darkness. _Had Sunglass lit a torch?_ The two orbs did seem to be flickering slightly, but they were too high off the ground to be held by a man's arm. Sunglass himself was also not illuminated. Suddenly, a chill ran down Gaemon's spine. _Two flickering torches, too small to be eyes, yet too far from the ground to be held by a man._ Gaemon suddenly knew exactly what those things were, and he immediately threw himself into the pool.

Above the surface of the water, a piercing green sun bloomed. The water itself, which had been freezing cold a moment before, became uncomfortably hot after a moment of the blinding light. Gaemon surfaced, knowing he needed to move immediately. Once his ears had left the water, he regretted surfacing so quickly. The first sensation he experienced was the heat. The feeling was so intense he felt as though the air itself would catch him alight. Then he registered the screams. Runcifer Sunglass had transformed into a sickening, writhing torch. Flailing this way and that, his screams were nearly inhuman, guttural, the kind Gaemon imagined a man could only make after having his entire form set alight. Thankfully, the screams ended quickly. Sunglass, or what was left of him, collapsed into a kneeling position, the flames still dancing so brightly about him that his appeared to be a green candle. And just like a candle would, he began to _melt_. The sight was sickening, but Gaemon had little time to observe. The cavern that had until recently been blacker than night had been set alight in many places, and Gaemon quickly realized its floor was littered with bones. The most terrifying aspect of all was the massive specter that loomed behind the burning remains of Sunglass, a dragon with scales black as night and eyes that shone with a baleful green light. _The Cannibal_ , thought Gaemon. He regarded it for only a single moment, before obeying the only command his body was giving him. He ran.

He had run for only a few moments when he realized that he had sprinted the _wrong way._ In his terror, Gaemon had run deeper into the cave. Cursing himself, he had to fight back tears of rage and desperation. _I should never have come here. I will burn just like the other fools._ Forcing himself to concentrate, he could see that he had run down a side passage. He could not hear much, other than the flickering and sputtering of flame, which he took to be a good sign. The Cannibal was far too large to move without disturbing the bones and stalagmites about the cave. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard what at first sounded like a series of twigs being snapped. His heart sank when he heard the subsequent unmistakable sound of crunching, which he now knew to be the Cannibal beginning its feast. _The Cannibal is large enough that it could eat several men. I must needs hide, or I will be joining Ser Sunglass in its belly._ Using the unnatural light of the dragon's green flames, he found a fissure in the rock, where after removing his sheepskin, he was able to wedge himself into.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, he felt he might go mad between his terror and his straining to hear any sort of noise that might betray the Cannibal's approach. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a noise akin to the scraping of a thousand blades on the cavern floor. As it grew louder, he realized with a sinking realization that the dragon was dragging itself closer to where he was. _It can most likely smell me_ , he thought. _Or if not me, that damned soaking sheepskin._ After a few more moments where it could clearly be heard approaching, the noise stopped suddenly. Gaemon found himself clenching his fists, holding his eyes closed, preparing himself for the blast of heat that would signal his demise. Instead, he found himself waiting for what seemed like another eternity. His nails were digging into his palms so deeply that he had begun to tear rents in the skin, the blood running warmly down his hands. Despite himself, through the terror, he began to grow curious. _What is that damned creature doing? Why can it not simply end my suffering already? At least Ser Sunglass was afforded a quick death._ He could barely stand waiting. He realized he was beginning to inch ever so closely out of the fissure. When he had emerged enough that he was able to turn his head, he slowly, ever so slowly, turned it to gaze down the passage he had come to attempt to glimpse if there was any sign of the beast.

If he had expected to be rewarded with a glimpse of an open passageway, signifying a chance at freedom, he was to be sorely mistaken. Gaemon instead found himself gazing directly into those same baleful green eyes he had seen only moments before, even though it felt like ages. He returned to the fissure as quickly as possible. Gaemon had never placed much stock in the worship of the Seven, but he found himself praying now. He couldn't be certain that the creature had seen him, but he felt that it almost certainly _had_. He had begun to shake, despite himself.

Once again, he fought back tears of frustration, of disappointment, of grief. Frustration at his youthful foolishness, disappointment at his failure to prove himself a true dragon, grief for his grandparents, who were to be left without anyone to help to provide for them in their old age. Most of all, however, Gaemon began to feel a new emotion begin to flicker in the depths of his being. It began to make its presence known as a low smoldering heat within him. Once he became aware of his presence, the embers burst fully into flame. Gaemon was shocked to find the strongest emotion he was feeling at that moment was _rage_. _I may have failed my father, my mother, my lineage, but I will NOT die a coward. I cannot stomach that. If this dragon is to be the death of me, I will die burning, but not with my back to it. I will face it, I must face it._ Gaemon's other emotions made way for the conflagration that burned and raged within him. Looking to the exterior of the fissure he had hidden himself away in, he saw what appeared to be a human bone, one that would likely be from the leg. _That will suit my purposes well enough,_ he thought with a grim smirk.

Taking the bone into his bloody hands, he took what he thought was likely to be his last breath, and stepped into the passage. The green eyes met his, and a low hiss emanated through the passage, carrying with the smell of fire and death. Tightening his grip around the bone, he screamed, letting his rage burn out of him, echoing down the passage.

"Bugger yourself wyrm, you will not cow me as you did the others. I will die a dragon."

With that he began running, screaming as he ran. He crossed the space of the passage quickly, and the dragon began to open its maw, revealing those flickering flames situated behind raws of razor sharp teeth half his own height. Crossing the last of the distance, Gaemon brought the thigh bone down with all the strength he could muster upon its snout, shouting as he did so. The bone rebounded, sending his arms flying back behind his head with the force of the reverberation. He accepted the end, hoping he'd feel little of it.

The end did not come. When he opened his eyes, he realized the Cannibal's mouth had closed slightly. It's eyes regarded him with a wary cunning, and if he was not imagining (which he supposed he most likely certainly was) there appeared to be something almost akin to shock emanating from those terrifying green orbs. He tensed again, certain that this had been only a momentary lapse in the dragon's attack. When the Cannibal instead closed its maw fully, it was Gaemon's turn to be stunned. At that moment, his knees simply gave out. Falling before the head of the massive creature, he simply sat, and stared, as it stared back at him. He waited for what seemed like hours, as neither seemed to be particularly interested in making the next move. Finally, Gaemon raised his hand, and began to move slowly towards the massive beast. It's eyes followed him every step of the way, and steam hissed from its nostrils. Crossing the last of the remaining distance, Gaemon placed his hand upon its head. A deep heat emanated from within the dragon, a primordial, terrifying heat, but one that seemed to resonate with a heat that he felt inside his own chest. He could not explain it, but his fear began to subside. Despite himself, he began to smile.

"Mayhaps I was a bit hasty. I may rescind that last command to bugger yourself."

* * *

The rest of the night he had spent within the cave, still in a state of complete disbelief. Despite apparently having resolved to no longer eat Gaemon, the Cannibal was by no means a creature that could be described as friendly or inviting. Everything had to be done cautiously, he knew when he was moving to quickly or suddenly when Cannibal snapped at him. Once, he had sent a gust of flame to his left when Gaemon had touched a wound that was still healing, smoking blood emanating from within. Even though he had not aimed to hit, Gaemon was fairly certain his hair had been close to being set alight. After that, he'd taken a break. After some time, he had fetched his sheepskin cloak and decided it was time for the real question. He approached the Cannibal slowly, but as confidently as he could. He walked slowly, maintaining eye contact as he began to circle to the right of the Cannibal's head. He then closed the distance, placing a hand on one of the spines that extended from the dragon's jaw. He began to lift himself, stopping when a low, gravelly growl emanated from the dragon.

When it appeared the Cannibal was not going to do anything worse than grumble, he continued his climb, until he seated himself in the base of its neck, between its two massive, leathery wings. They sat there for a moment, before the Cannibal lurched forward, the sound of his scales producing the familiar sound of swords scraping the cavern floor once more. Gaemon began to shake; he was still half convinced he had indeed died, and that this was some sort of vision he was experiencing immediately prior to his horrific death. Such thoughts were dispelled the moment the Cannibal cleared the cavern entrance, spread his wings, and beating them powerfully, began to lift himself into the air. Gaemon was giddy with excitement, but clung as tightly to two spines before him as he could. _It would not do for me to have come this far, only to end as a splattered corpse on the Dragonmont below._

As they circled higher and higher, Gaemon was glad he had brought his cloak, for he would have never guessed the winds and air would be so much cooler amidst the clouds. He allowed the Cannibal to choose their path, reveling in a feeling he could have never imagined he would feel, soaring above the island he had called home for all his life. It was only after they had almost completed their circling the island from above that Gaemon felt the tears that had fallen down his cheeks. _I AM a dragon. I AM a Targaryen!_ He realized with deep sadness that despite all he had said, he had not truly believed those words until this moment. It was one thing to hold a gold dragon in one's palm, and another entirely to ride one amidst the clouds. _I have succeeded in mastering a dragon. I can take my place at Queen Rhaenyra's side, claim my birthright, and help to seat her on the Iron Throne!_

He laughed, out of pure joy, with only his dragon and the wind as the witnesses to his joy. Eventually after circling the island a second time, he pulled as hard as he could on the spines he had been clutching, guiding the Cannibal in a lazy spiral towards the island. Surprisingly, the dragon responded, following his commands and arcing downwards. Gaemon felt for a moment a sensation akin to though he was falling, as though his stomach was falling out from his chest, but acclimated to it quickly. Guiding the Cannibal down through the clouds, finally resting his eyes upon the citadel rapidly approaching below him. He was able to make out what appeared to be hundreds of dragon themed gargoyles, and different buildings molded in ways to resemble dragons in various poses. Spotting a relatively empty courtyard, he guided the Cannibal towards it, and saw with some satisfaction that many people were scattering to avoid being landed on. Reaching the ground, the Cannibal beat his wings, slowly lowering himself to the stone floor. Gaemon climbed off, his legs aching and trying to keep himself from shaking. As the Cannibal cast baleful glances with its green eyes as the crowd rapidly surrounding them, Gaemon once more found himself smiling. _It is time to meet my family_ , he thought to himself.


	3. Maegor I

**Maegor I**

Maegor was miserable. The early morning cold always bit bone deep, yet there was nothing to do but press onward, teeth gritted. Dawn hadn't come to Dragonstone, but the inky blackness of night had receded somewhat, leaving the sky painted in a deep purple that gradually grew lighter as the morning approached. His father and brothers had yet to wake, as they were still sleeping off the effects of last night's ale.

His father had decided the night before was a time for celebration, as there was now "a chance for me and mine to prove our blood!" The blood that he was referring to, of course, was that of Maegor's own namesake, the king known to many as _The Cruel_.

To the people of Dragonstone, the former king was a complicated matter. From what stories he'd heard from his own father and other villagers, the first Prince of Dragonstone had spent most of his youth on the island with his mother, the Queen Visenya, sister-wife to King Aegon. According to the bards' tales, King Maegor was a tyrant and brute who caused great suffering throughout the realm before both the people and the Seven finally saw fit to end his reign of terror. On Dragonstone however, King Maegor was spoken about in fearful tones to be sure, but also those of awe and pride. Before he was a King, Maegor Targaryen had been a Prince, and was well-respected by the people of the island he ruled over for many years before his exile and kingship.

Silver Denys certainly took pride in his heritage. He claimed that his own grandsire was a bastard son of the famously childless king, and that his blood still flowed strongly through the veins of his descendants. Whenever pressed about the fact that King Maegor's only trueborn children were stillborn monstrosities, and that any bastard of his would likely have been so as well, Denys would scoff, before pointing at his own strongly Valyrian features.

"The seed of dragons is strongest where they roost", he would say, "and King Maegor's true home was always this island." Most arguments would end there, and if they didn't, Silver Denys had three strong sons along with his own fists if needed to defend his honor. Upon learning of the call for new dragonriders, Maegor's father was ecstatic. Not long after Gaemon had left, Denys had ordered a round of drinks for all in the common room. As he put it, "I won't need to pinch coppers when my sons and I sup at the Queen's table!"

After hearing the guards' announcement, Maegor's mind had immediately begun to race with thoughts. He had hardly considered his tankard of ale or bowl of pottage after learning the news. As the others in the room drank and made merry, Maegor let his thoughts wander, a habit of his that his father and brothers certainly felt was not ideal in a fisherman. Dragging in nets for hours at a time was as dull as it was backbreaking, and Maegor had gotten more than a few clouts in the ear for slip-ups he made whilst paying more attention to his thoughts than the world around him.

"I need your eyes on the sea, not the clouds", his father would grunt, and Maegor would apologize sheepishly before getting back to work. Theirs was not an easy life, but Maegor never went hungry, and was experienced in a trade that would always be necessary on an island like Dragonstone.

Maegor found himself along the edge of a sloped bluff that overlooked a portion of Dragonstone's large rocky shoreline. Two boats sat on this bluff, at the bottom of a dusty footpath that led back up to the thatch-roofed stone hut that Maegor shared with his father and brothers. The larger of the two boats was a deep-bellied skiff that he and his family used when fishing, with room enough for its four occupants, as well as the nets and barrels necessary for catching fish. The smaller of the two was a much smaller rowboat, much more convenient for navigating shallow inlets along the shoreline, or for greater speed and mobility on the open water. It was this smaller rowboat that Maegor began to push down the bluff with a grunt, after grabbing a fishing net from the skiff and tossing it into the rowboat.

The boat alternated between sliding on the sand of the shore and bumping on the numerous dark rocks jutting from the ground, though nearly all were worn completely smooth by the endless persistence of seawater that flowed in on the high tide. Maegor kept his eyes open for any particularly large or jagged rocks that could damage the boat on his way to the surf. After the stormy seas of the day before, Maegor was relieved to find that the waters were significantly calmer. _And let them stay that way_ , Maegor thought as he pushed the rowboat deeper into the water. He quickly clambered in, steadying the boat and grabbing its oars. Leaning his back into the strokes, Maegor quickly drifted away from the shoreline, watching it become enveloped in the early morning fog.

Though he was experienced on the water, Maegor felt tendrils of apprehension beginning to twist in his belly as the fog closed around him much more tightly than he expected. _Any other time, and I would turn back for shore right away_. It was only a foolhardy sailor that would continuously test his luck against an ocean with hidden dangers that could be lurking in the fog mere paces away. _But this is no normal day_. Maegor needed these fish for a plan he had concocted the night before in the inn. He had no assurance that it would work, but he had been unable to sleep throughout the night as he lay alone with his thoughts, listening to his father and brothers toss and turn in their sleep, and as Aenys' increasingly loud snores threatened to bring the thatch roof down upon their heads.

Pulling the oars back into the boat, Maegor grabbed the net from where it sat pooled at his feet. Securing it to the rowboat, he dropped the end weighted with stones into the water, allowing it to spread open beneath the water's surface. Opening a small, foul-smelling pouch, Maegor began throwing some of the bits of fish viscera he'd taken as chum from the village refuse pile into the water. He watched the water underneath the boat patiently, waiting for his chance. Seeing a small group of fish nearing his boat, Maegor grinned and waited for them to start nibbling at the bait. Then, he took one of his oars and began to vigorously beat the surface of the water, causing as great a disturbance and fright to the fish as he could. He then quickly sat the oar back down and began hauling in the net. Just as he'd hoped, many of the frightened and confused fish had swum right into it, and were now flopping vainly from within its sodden confines as Maegor returned the net to the bottom of the rowboat.

It was at that moment that Maegor saw slight ripples beginning to form on the water's surface. _He's hungry_. Digging through the net, Maegor found the fattest fish that he could, and gripped it tightly as it continued to weakly thrash against his grasp. Steadying himself so as not to accidentally use his size against himself and capsize the rowboat, Maegor threw the fish as hard as he could into the air. The rowboat shook slightly and several locks of hair fluttered against Maegor's forehead as something large passed above him in the thick mist, remaining unseen. The fish had vanished in the mist, and did not come hurtling back down to Maegor's boat or the sea. _It seems that the Ghost has accepted my offering_ , Maegor thought with a grin. As the sun continued to rise above the island of Dragonstone, the mist quickly melted away. Gaining his bearings, Maegor turned the rowboat back towards the shore and began rowing.

* * *

As he pulled the rowboat back up the slope of the bluff, grunting from the exertion of it, Maegor thought about the visit he'd received out on the open water. _That was the first time in a long while_. The Grey Ghost never made his presence known to Maegor on the open water if he was accompanied by anyone else, and there always needed to be enough fog to ensure that Maegor was unable to actually see the dragon. Despite his vehement claims as a child, Maegor's father and brothers had never believed Maegor's story about catching a glimpse of the Ghost on Dragonmont. _They chalked it up to that "imagination" of mine, and spoke no more of it_. At first, Maegor had been very frustrated, and eventually began to think that mayhaps his memory was simply an embellishment that he'd built up within his head. _And then I received another visit_. It had been a morning much like the one he was currently trudging back to his family's hut through. _I had no chores that day, and it was the first time da let me take a boat out on the water by myself_. From that point on, everytime Maegor nearly began to lose track of his last encounter with the elusive dragon, the Ghost would visit him early in the morning when Maegor would sail out alone to catch fish and be alone with his thoughts. _He'd be hidden in his shroud of fog, and I'd toss him some breakfast_. Maegor had reached the door of his family's hut, and he opened it and stepped inside.

A savory smell filled Maegor's nose as soon as he entered. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadowed interior of the hut, and the slight smoky haze that hung throughout the room as a cookfire burned. His father and brothers were awake and sitting at the old wooden table situated in the center of their hut. They were eating rashers of bacon, which was a rare occasion. Meat from the pigs raised and slaughtered on Dragonstone was expensive, so Maegor would only break his fast on bacon for truly special occasions. The table and benches they were sitting at had been a gift from Maegor's grandsire to his daughter the day she and Denys became one in the eyes of the Seven. Some of Maegor's strongest memories of his mother were tied to that table. If he sat at it and closed his eyes, he could envision her cooking the evening meal while his father and brothers were out at sea. She would give him little bits of said meal as she worked, and laugh when Maegor would beg for more. Her answer was the same every time. _Peace child,_ she'd say with a twinkle in her eye, _sometimes we must needs wait for what we want._

Maegor made his way over to the hearth with his net of fish. The ash that had been spread over the fire to smoke the rashers still covered the fire crackling within, but Maegor scooped some more ashes off of the dirt floor outside the hearth and sprinkled them over the crackling flame. As he opened the net and grabbed a fish from within, the fresh ashes added to the flames deepened the smoky haze that filled the room. Maegor speared the fish on black iron rungs high within the hearth to smoke them, while squinting his eyes as they watered from the smoke. The heat of the flames and the hot iron rungs within the hearth didn't bother him, however. _The blood of the dragon burns hotter in our veins than any cookfire_ , his father would say, and Maegor had found that fact to be true more than once.

Once he was finished hanging up his catch to smoke, Maegor sat down next to Aenys on one of the wooden benches, facing his father and Aegon. Grabbing a rasher of bacon that had clearly been placed out for him, he bit into it. It tasted as good as it smelled, and Maegor enjoyed the feel of the warm bacon grease dribbling down his chin. His father grinned across the table at him, his violet eyes flashing through the haze in the cottage.

"Starting early today, are we?"

Maegor nodded back at him as his teeth tore another chunk from the rasher. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and pointed at the hearth. "I believe that I'll have need of every fish that I caught this morning."

Aegon raised an eyebrow at that before speaking. "Why's that? Ya got an even bigger appetite than usual?"

Maegor grinned at him, for his brother spoke truly. It seemed that the taller Maegor grew, the larger his stomach did as well. His father and brothers were quick to jokingly remind him that he needed to leave enough fish in the sea for the rest of the island to eat.

"Not I, but I fear that the Ghost will have an appetite that rivals even my own. I plan on returning to his home with offerings of fish. That dragon seems to love fish as much as a lord loves his gold."

Maegor's other brother was quick to join the conversation. Elbowing him, Aenys shot a look across the table at Aegon and their father. "Would ya listen to that! Little Maegor is telling tales about his friend the dragon again."

He simply laughed as Maegor shoved a retaliatory elbow into his side, which due to Maegor's size nearly knocked his brother off his perch on the bench. Smiling, Maegor crossed his arms. "I'm not so little anymore, and the lot of you will eat your words when I fly down from the Dragonmont to light a fire under your sorry arse, Aenys."

The four of them laughed at that, but Maegor's father waved a hand in the air after a few seconds to get the attention of his sons. Maegor took note of his father's expression as it became more serious, but mirth still burned brightly in his eyes.

"The Ghost would be quite a prize if you can find him, but I plan on taming a less elusive mount."

Maegor raised an eyebrow. He had no doubts that his father would try to tame a dragon, but he hadn't expected him to set out so soon. _Then again, who would sit and wait when an opportunity like this appears? There are many more people on this island than dragons, and from the sounds of it, many have already begun trying to tame them, though few have succeeded._ Maegor wondered about Gaemon in that moment. His friend had wasted no time in setting out from the inn the night before, and Maegor knew exactly which dragon he would seek out. _Only the largest and most fearsome dragon would do for the bastard of a prince. Seven hells Gaemon, haven't you heard the stories?_ The Cannibal was a nearly legendary creature on the island, a dragon that was feared by wise men and sought out by fools. _But Gaemon is no fool. There is no middle ground when his mind latches on to an idea. By now he'll either be riding that beast, or his bones will litter the floor of his cave_.

It was then that Maegor realized that his father was waiting for a response to a question that Maegor hadn't heard. Seeing that his son hadn't been paying attention, Silver Denys merely rolled his eyes before repeating himself.

"Most smallfolk on the island know where the Sheepstealer roosts. I plan to claim that beast before any others try to. The people will see once and for all that the blood of King Maegor flows as strongly in our veins as my da before me, and my grandsire before him! Will you join me and your brothers as I go to tame the Sheepstealer?"

Maegor felt his mouth dry out. His father and brothers were all watching him intently. "I-" Maegor began, but then looked down, feeling ashamed. _I feel I must needs seek out the Grey Ghost now, but what man would I be to abandon my father and brothers at a time like this_?

Looking back up at his father and brothers, Maegor was surprised to see them all smiling. Denys sat up straight, then nodded. "You'd rather seek out the Ghost right now, wouldn't ya? There's no shame in that, boy."

Standing, his father moved across the room, grabbing his traveling cloak. Aegon and Aenys did the same. The three walked through the door of the hut, with Maegor scrambling from his seat and tailing close behind. When he made it to the dirt path that led up to the village, and beyond it, the foothills under the Dragonmont, Silver Denys turned back to face Maegor. Clapping a strong and calloused hand on his shoulder, he smiled widely.

"The next time I see ya, we'll both be on dragonback. A great honor that'll be." With that, he turned and began walking up the path.

Aegon smiled, and pulled Maegor into a strong embrace. "Do us proud," was all he said, before he continued up the path.

Aenys smirked before pulling him into an embrace that was no less fierce than Aegon's. "I'll see soon enough whether or not you've been lying about seeing the Ghost. And if ya were, I'll give ya a good enough clout on the ear that it'll ring even that thick head of yours."

Maegor laughed at that, and soon Aenys was walking up the path as well. Maegor stood rooted in place, watching the cloaked backs of his father and brothers until they vanished over the crest of the hill at the edge of the village. Maegor felt an odd sense of melancholy as the last of them disappeared, that didn't dissipate even after he returned to the cottage to finish his rasher of bacon.

"I'll see them soon enough," he muttered to himself, taking another bite. The feeling slowly faded away, replaced by a growing anxiety as he considered the journey that now lay ahead of him.

* * *

Climbing the Dragonmont had been no easy task as a child, and Maegor found that it was even harder now due to his size. Clutching the ledge tightly, he hoisted himself up onto it, rolling away from it and leaning against a rock to catch his breath. Sweat was pouring down his face and back, and his muscles were clenching and unclenching wildly from the exertion of his first real ascent up the mountainside off of the sheer goat paths that lead a short ways up the Dragonmont from the surrounding hills. As he caught his breath, his thoughts wandered back to the circumstances that led him to this mountain so long ago in his life.

_His father had tried to explain to him that birthing was never easy on a mother, and that there was always a possibility that she could die while bringing a child into the world. The death of his mother in the birthing bed had devastated Maegor, but he hadn't cried until he learned that his baby sister had not taken long in following their mother from the world of the living._

_"The Stranger guides their way now," his father had said, his voice cracking. Denys had buried them not far from the cottage, under a small gnarled tree that offered some shelter from the rain._

Maegor stood, adjusting the musty rope that secured the sack of smoked fish to his back. He had set out as soon as the fish were done smoking. He'd put out the fire, and placed the fish in a large burlap sack before using a short length of fraying rope to sling it securely over his shoulder. He still had much of the late morning and afternoon to complete his ascent, if he moved with as much haste as possible. Running his fingers along the rock face ahead of him, Maegor found a hand hold. Grunting, he continued his climb.

_Maegor didn't want to stay at the almshouse for orphans in the shadow of Dragonstone's castle. But there were no other choices for him. He was too young to go out to sea with his father and brothers, and he wasn't capable of doing mother's old chores either. His father had brought him there early one morning, and entrusted him to the kindly septons that ran the almshouse. As Maegor had cried and begged his father to take him back home that first day, Denys had hugged him fiercely._

_"You know that I can't," he'd whispered, tears in his eyes. "Work hard and listen well, and you may have a better life than your da and your brothers yet."_

_Over the following weeks, Maegor did as his father asked. He worked hard at his chores, and did as he was told. When he noticed Maegor looking intently through a copy of the Seven Pointed Star, Septon Bennard had immediately begun teaching Maegor letters, and when Maegor took to learning them like "a fish took to swimming", Septon Bennard had Maegor begin reading and writing as well. Maegor read whatever he could find in his free time, for it was only while he was reading that he could truly escape the world around him. Septon Bennard was very pleased, and oft claimed that Maegor had it in him to be a Septon himself one day. While the other children played, Maegor read, and practiced scrawling out sentences from the Seven Pointed Star on whatever scraps of parchment that Septon Bennard gave him with bits of charcoal. Try as he might to befriend them, most of the other children oft ignored Maegor, while others called him names and hit him. Maegor's life continued in this manner for well over a year, before the dragon came to his dreams._

Maegor was getting close to his destination. The sulfurous air burned inside his nose, and white smoke poured from numerous cracks and vents that seemed to grow in amount and size the further he climbed. His ascent took on an almost dream-like quality, as half-seen shapes swirled in and out of existence within the fog. He breathed deep of the air around him that shimmered and smelled like fire, and a smoldering warmth grew in Maegor's chest, spreading throughout his tired body, lending his muscles a newfound strength that drove him onward. _I'm nearly there_. He could feel it. A small ledge gave way under his right foot, and Maegor felt terror bloom within him. Legs dangling in open air, Maegor clutched his shallow handholds tightly. The smoke swirled about him, its silvery tendrils wrapping around him as though they were tentacles of a kraken trying to pull him to his doom. The strength that he had felt was fading rapidly, and he knew that he would soon lose his grip. Gritting his teeth, Maegor hoisted himself up as far as he could, and blindly reached his right hand into the mist, praying for another handhold.

_He hadn't dreamed of home that night, but he felt a familiar warm and comforting feeling throughout himself that started in his fingertips and toes and flowed into his heart as he took in his surroundings. He was surrounded by a swirling mist that revealed none and hid all. Stepping forward, he began to see a dim light, distorted by the mist and flickering tremulously. The closer he walked, the brighter it burned. Tall shadows began to dance within the mist, illuminated by the brightness of the hidden fire. Maegor felt no fear, even as the light seemed to burn brighter than the sun, searing Maegor's eyes and burning away the world around him. When he finally closed his eyes against the light's intensity, he stopped walking forward. Opening his eyes, Maegor found himself staring out over the island of Dragonstone to the sea. He was on its desolate eastern side, where the island's castle and many of its villages were hidden from view. Looking behind him, he was surprised that he didn't even need to squint to see the volcano's glowing mouth looming further above him. Turning back towards the sea, he took notice of a massive gash in the slope, billowing smoke that glowed with the unnatural light of the Dragonmont's fiery heart. Moving over to it, he dropped to his knees and peered inside of it. Seeing nothing, and continuing to feel no fear, Maegor crawled into the billowing vent. He began to fall, and as he fell further and further, flames began to envelop him, cloaking him in a robe of crackling reds, oranges, and blues. Looking through the flames burning all around him, Maegor saw the face of a dragon. Its features were indistinct, but Maegor could tell it was aware of him. It began to move towards him through the pillars of white-hot flame, and its visage was clear enough that Maegor could see its eyes were closed. And then, they weren't. Pale white orbs seemed to bore into his soul, and Maegor sat up with a start, sweating and breathing heavily within the darkness of the almshouse._

Maegor never wanted to climb this thrice-damned mountain again. Taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs with air, he slowly inched away from the ledge he had managed to scramble over. He knew he was in the right place. Collecting his strength as well as his thoughts, Maegor staggered to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. There was a small stone ledge leading up from the landing he was on to the upper reaches of the Dragonmont's eastern slopes. He remembered walking along that same ledge a long time ago, as a significantly smaller and scrawnier lad. Walking on to the ledge, Maegor pressed his stomach and face to the sheer rock, and began to inch his way upwards. Thankfully, nothing gave way, and after a slow but mercifully uneventful ascent, Maegor found himself looking up a less steep portion of slope, broken up by a large vent that billowed an eerie glowing smoke, owing its glow to the fires that burned deep within it.

_After seeing the dragon within his dreams, Maegor could hardly think of anything else over the next week. He found himself frequently staring up at the Dragonmont, and it sometimes felt as though the imposing volcano was in some way calling out to him. Maegor made his decision quickly. Despite the great kindness of Septon Bennard, Maegor was tired of his life in the almshouse, and began planning his escape. Over the next several days, Maegor would wrap up small bits of his morning and evening meals in strips of cloth from a torn-up shirt and store them behind an old barrel at the rear of the almshouse positioned so that it could collect rainwater running off of the building's sloped roof. In addition, he'd filled and tucked away a large leather water skin. Exactly a week after he'd dreamt of the dragon, Maegor settled in for the evening, acting as though he was sleeping while he waited for the other orphans and Septons to turn in for the night. When the light of the last candle was extinguished in another room, Maegor fought the urge within himself to immediately begin moving._

_In the darkness, he waited for what felt like an agonizingly long time, and to keep from growing tired, he practiced reciting his letters in his head. Eventually, he sat up silently, squinting to see within the darkness of the room he shared with several other orphans. He was already wearing his warmest clothes, and carried his blanket under his arm. Silent as a shadow, he crept across the room and out into the hallway. Placing his feet carefully to avoid stepping on any of the creaky floorboards that he'd memorized the location of, Maegor made his way to the carved stone steps leading down to the almshouse's common room. At the top of the steps, he hesitated one last time. Looking back, Maegor could see the outline of the doorway to Septon Bennard's quarters. Maegor knew that the man would worry about him, and for a moment considered forgetting about escaping and returning to his room. But the moment passed, and with it Maegor's indecision. Down the steps he went, as quiet as a mouse. In the common room, Maegor stopped to pet the guard dog of the almshouse, scratching it behind its ears. The large mutt wagged its tail silently, then licked his hand. Out the back door Maegor went, closing it slowly so that it wouldn't creak on its old hinges. Collecting his hidden food in a small sack that he'd brought with him, he wrapped it and the waterskin up into his blanket, before wrapping the blanket around his waist and tying it off tightly. Escaping the town beneath Dragonstone's castle proved much easier than escaping the almshouse, and as the moon reached its zenith in the night sky, Maegor had begun to trek around the base of the Dragonmont towards its eastern side._

Looking at the vent, Maegor hoped that he'd see some sign of the dragon that lived within it. Several minutes passed, and nothing happened. If the Grey Ghost was roosting in it at the moment, he had no intention of informing Maegor of his presence. Turning back to look out at the sea, Maegor marveled at how far he had climbed throughout the day. The setting sun was hidden in the western skies behind Dragonmont's peak, but the evening sky was a vibrant red and pink. Maegor was suddenly quite aware of how tired he was. Opening the burlap sack, Maegor retrieved two smoked fish from within. Creeping up as close as he dared to the massive vent's edge, Maegor placed the larger of the two fish on the ground. Maegor then made a meal of the other fish that he'd grabbed, providing some nourishment to his growling stomach. As he licked the grease from his fingers and tossed the bones aside, the moon had just begun to rise over the island. In stark contrast to the blackness of the night, the vent glowed redly, looking much more sinister than it did when the light of the sun still touched the world. _Like some entrance to the Seven Hells_ , Maegor thought. Nestling beneath his cloak against a large rock sitting on the slope, Maegor decided to try and get some sleep. He closed his eyes, and sleep came quickly.

_It had taken him two days to find the vent that he'd seen in his dreams. Climbing mountains was hungry work, and before he knew it, Maegor had eaten nearly all of the food that he'd brought with him from the almshouse. When he finally had found the vent, Maegor had been as excited as he was scared. He'd spent an entire day watching it from behind a rock, but nothing had happened. Disappointed, Maegor had gone foraging along the sparse slopes of the Dragonmont, and was pleased to find a small amount of bright red berries. Picking them, he'd eaten them along with the last of his food, forcing himself to only drink a small amount of water. The more of that he drank, the less time that he could spend on the Dragonmont looking for the Dragon. It wasn't until much later that night that he'd woken up with his stomach twisting in agonizing knots, and began vomiting._

Maegor woke early the next morning, and shook the moisture off his cloak that had collected throughout the night. He shivered, pulling his cloak tighter about himself. The mornings were less cold on the slopes of the Dragonmont, thanks to the warm mists constantly rising from vents and cracks in the mountainside, but the chill in the air had not completely vanished. That was when Maegor noticed that the fish he had left out had vanished. _Gods be good! Is the Grey Ghost here after all?_ Grabbing another fish, he crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the vent. The steam rising from it was searingly hot, and Maegor did not risk injury by attempting to peer inside of it. He simply left the fish and hid behind a rock, watching. An hour passed, and nothing had happened.

Maegor decided on a new strategy, shimmying back down the ledge to the lower landing that he'd climbed to the day before. After watching the sun rise higher in the eastern sky for a good amount of time, Maegor climbed the ledge again. This time, the fish had vanished. _Ha! My ploy worked!_ Maegor was very confident that no bird would brave the heated mist and air smelling of brimstone on the Dragonmont to steal the fish he was setting out, and felt that it could be none other than the Grey Ghost taking them. For the better part of the day, Maegor set out a fish, then climbed down to the lower landing. Each time, however, he waited a shorter amount of time before shimmying back up to see whether the fish remained where he had left it. Maegor was pleased each time to see that the fish had been taken, but grew increasingly frustrated that there was no sign of the Ghost himself. Maegor figured that he had only enough fish to see him through the rest of the day at the rate that he was using them. By evenfall, he was completely discouraged. _The Grey Ghost clearly likes my fish, but he will not come for them if I remain too close._ It was maddening, to know how close he was to the dragon he sought, but at the same time seemingly unable to reach it.

Eating another fish as the evening fell, Maegor found that he only had one left. _My last chance_. Staring at the fish in his hands, Maegor grimaced. _All of this effort for naught. I guess I'll be getting that clout in the ear from Aenys after all._ Maegor could only hope that his father had had better luck than him. _This was a fool's errand from the start. Ever since I first came to this place, the Ghost has shown an interest in me, but kept his distance. It was arrogant to think that this would end any other way._ Frustrated, hungry, and tired, Maegor fell asleep for a second night on the slopes of the Dragonmont, still tightly clutching his last smoked fish.

_After spending half of the night vomiting and descending into delirium, Maegor found himself too weak to stand as the sun rose. The berries that he had eaten clearly were not safe to consume, but he had done just that. Now, as he lay ill and exhausted, his stomach empty from how sick he'd been, Maegor feared that he wouldn't be able to climb back down the Dragonmont, much less stand. More than anything, he just felt tired. Drifting in and out of consciousness for much of the day, his senses finally seemed to fully return to him as the evening sun glowed redly over the island. Maegor needed food, but he still lacked the strength to do anything more than crawl on his hands and knees. He then smelled charred meat. Looking in the direction of the glowing vent, Maegor could see several charred fish lying around it, as though they'd been haphazardly dropped and forgotten. Scrabbling over towards the vent, he grabbed one of the fish. Grimacing at how hot to the touch it was, Maegor blew on it desperately and waved it in the air, hoping it would cool enough to eat. Then, he tore into the fish with a starved desperation. He did the same with two other fish that he found scattered nearby. With a full belly, Maegor had lain down to sleep, resolving to descend the mountain the next day._

Opening his eyes, Maegor thought he was still dreaming as he began to take in the sight before him. Morning sunlight shone gently across the upper eastern face of the Dragonmont, sluicing through the plumes of white smoke to reveal a slender grey-white dragon sitting beyond the large vent's ledge, regarding Maegor silently with pearl-white eyes. Due to the color of his scales, it looked almost as though the smoke swirling around the dragon was in some way part of it.

" _Grey Ghost_ ", Maegor whispered, afraid that by speaking the image before him would melt away like morning mist.

When that didn't happen, Maegor rose slowly to his feet, legs shaking in anticipation and fear. Picking up his last smoked fish from the ground, Maegor slowly approached the dragon, terrified that he'd startle it and make it fly away, or retreat into the vent it roosted in.

The Ghost seemed tense to Maegor, and Maegor spent what felt to be a lifetime slowly crossing the small distance of slope between himself and the dragon. Stopping a few feet in front of it, Maegor hesitated. Shaking his head, he steeled his nerves and tossed the fish into the air in front of the Grey Ghost. Quick as a bolt of lightning, the fish was snatched out of the air by the dragon's large jaws. After consuming the fish in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, the Grey Ghost went back to silently watching Maegor. Taking the last few steps forward, Maegor found himself a mere span or so from where the dragon sat. With a tentative hand, Maegor reached out, praying to the Seven that the creature would not lash out at him. It didn't, and Maegor sucked in a breath as his hand came into contact with the smooth grey-white scales along the dragon's snout. The Grey Ghost's head shrunk back slightly at Maegor's touch, but the dragon made no attempt to flee. _This will take some time_. Smiling, Maegor took another step forward, continuing to run his hand along the dragon's snout. _Sometimes we must needs wait for what we want._ Maegor would take as long as the Grey Ghost needed to become acclimated to Maegor and his touch.

_After his meal of charred fish the night before, Maegor had awoken the next morning feeling much better. Though he hadn't seen the dragon from his dream, Maegor wasn't completely discouraged. He had still found the place on the Dragonmont that he'd seen while sleeping, and that discovery alone filled him with a sense of pride, as well as wonder. Why had he dreamed of this place? Maegor wasn't sure, but he did know that his time on the Dragonmont had come to an end. As he began his descent, Maegor was surprised to hear loud wingbeats close by. Craning his neck and staring at the sky, Maegor was awestruck as a grey-white dragon flew over him, close enough that he realized it had the same look of the dragon from his dream. When he'd reached the foothills below the Dragonmont, Maegor had taken the path towards the village and home where his father and brothers lived, resolving to not live another day beneath the roof of the almshouse below Dragonstone's castle._

It had taken Maegor nearly the entire day to get the Grey Ghost comfortable enough with his presence and touch to allow Maegor to clamber up onto his back. The dragon had then taken flight, and Maegor had understood for the first time in his life how beautiful the island of Dragonstone and ocean surrounding it looked from high above as both passed by far below him. It was early evening when Maegor guided the Grey Ghost down into the largest courtyard of Dragonstone's castle, and as he slid from the Grey Ghost's back to the ground, he looked hopefully for a familiar face amongst the people gathering to watch his arrival, largely with expressions of extreme shock. Hardly any people on the island could truly claim that they had seen the Grey Ghost with their own eyes, and even then it was from a great distance. Now the dragon stood before them all in the castle courtyard, silently regarding them with its milk-white eyes.

Maegor hoped to see his father and brothers already amongst the faces, there to greet and congratulate him. _How proud father will be that we both ride dragons in the Queen's name!_ They weren't there, however. He did see one of the soldiers from the inn on that rainy evening not so long ago, when Maegor had decided to try to tame the Grey Ghost. He was pale, and staring at Maegor as though _he_ were the one more deserving of the epithet "ghost". Stepping towards the guardsman, Maegor called out to him with a friendly smile.

"Greetings friend!" Maegor said, before his gnawing curiosity brought a question from his lips. "My father intended to claim the Sheepstealer, and left several days ago with my brothers to do so. Have you heard any news?" _The blood of King Maegor flows even more strongly in his veins than mine, and he looks as much a Dragonlord as any member of the smallfolk on this island. Has he truly not succeeded yet in taming the Sheepstealer?_

Seemingly trying to compose himself, the guard stepped forward, his face still ashen. "We thought you was dead with the rest of 'em," he stuttered.

The murmurs of the crowd died down as Maegor stopped in his tracks as though he'd been slapped across the face. He was so stunned that he barely recognized the grinning face of Gaemon having just appeared at the back of the crowd.

" _What?_ ", Maegor whispered, though he felt that he already knew what dreadful answer he'd receive. "Some of the village folk followed your da and brothers out to the lair of the Sheepstealer to watch him try an' tame the dragon. They say that the evil bugger tore Silver Denys' arm off, then burned him an' his boys as they tried ta' stop the bleedin'."

 _It can't be_. Maegor suddenly thought of a time as a boy when he'd fallen from his family's skiff and nearly drowned. The same feeling of constricting tightness clenched his lungs as he stared in disbelief at the shaken guardsman. The joy that had been filling Maegor had crumbled to ash within him, and he felt as though he couldn't move. _Why? Gods be good, Why?_ There was no answer but a silent breeze blowing across the courtyard. 


	4. Gaemon III

**Gaemon III**

The courtyard in which Gaemon had landed seemed to be Dragonstone's bailey, as there were several areas which caught Gaemon's eye immediately as he looked about. Covering what must have been an armory and smithy (judging from the smoke billowing into the air above it), were a pair of great wings, covering the otherwise open-air work area. Scanning the walls around him, he could make out the tops of several towers, one of which was molded to resemble a screaming dragon, and another that was decidedly calmer. Lastly, before him rose a massive central tower. He thought he spied faces peering out from lancets set high above the ground, but they were gone almost as quickly as they appeared. Everything was crafted of black stone, and there were an abundance of draconic gargoyles scattered about the walls and buildings. _As if one needed several, constant reminders of the draconic heritage of the citadel's occupants. My ancestors certainly possessed an… eccentric taste in building appearances,_ Gaemon thought to himself with a smirk. Despite finding the interior of the castle to be a bit much, he was elated to have finally made his way inside its massive curtain walls, and was quick to drink in all he could of his surroundings. The air smelled of smoke, brimstone, and the distant salt of the sea.

His observations were cut short by a deep hiss from behind him, followed by a snap, and a scream. He turned to find the Cannibal still curled behind him, its mouth slightly open, regarding two young washerwomen who'd approached him a bit too closely in awe. Taking a bucket left in the muck of the courtyard, he tossed it at the dragon, watching with some satisfaction as it connected with its lower jaw. _Let us hope our new relationship is strong enough that it might allow me to scold it so._ A deep, rumbling growl emanated from the Cannibal, and it granted him the luxury of one of its baleful stares. It had, however, ceased its altogether disturbing fixation on the two washerwomen, which Gaemon took to be a good sign that it would not eat them. _That would be a very unfortunate introduction_ , he thought with an internal grimace. The Cannibal, espousing a look that was equal parts terrifying but also clearly annoyed, curled into a massive, scaled ball, and began to sleep. From elsewhere within the castle Gaemon could hear the roars of dragons, likely sensing another draconic presence in their midst. _Or perhaps it's simply time to break their fast_.

By this point quite a crowd had gathered, with what appeared to be men-at-arms, household knights, and servants all gathered to stare in awe at the dragon and its recently dismounted rider.

The first to speak was an older man-at-arms, who must have already passed his 50th nameday: "Never in my life did I expect the Cannibal to be tamed. I have seen many men disappear after setting out to do so. Older than the Old King, that dragon. Meaner than Maegor the cruel, too. How'd you do it, son?" His crinkled eyes regarded him with a mixture of awe and respect.

Gaemon took a moment to relish in being given such a look, before speaking. "Honestly, I hit him on the snout with someone's leg bone. They clearly had no use for it anymore."

A high-pitched, exaggerated laugh echoed out from within the crowd. "He tames a big scary dragon, and is almost as funny as Mushroom? If his member is even half of the size of mine, I'd be hiding your lady folk, good sers!" With a giggle and a tumble, a dwarf in motley managed to squeeze his way through the crowd. He bowed, almost falling onto his face, before turning his fall into a roll. Rising before Gaemon, he placed a hat atop his head that completed his mushroom look. "What's your name, dragonseed?" He asked as he held out his hand expectantly.

Taking the dwarfs hand, Gaemon smiled. "Gaemon Tar… Waters. Gaemon Waters." He repeated himself with more emphasis.

He had hoped in the general commotion that no one had noticed his slip-up. It would be downright dangerous to make such a statement _here_ of all places. To his relief, everyone was still too busy watching the Cannibal or laughing at Mushroom's entrance to have noticed. As he regarded Mushroom, a brief look of what looked to be interest, perhaps a low cunning, seemed to flit behind his eyes. As soon as it had appeared however, it was gone. Gaemon was uncertain if he had even seen it, as it seemed the dwarf was a bit, well, slow. As soon as he had stopped shaking Gaemon's hand, he had turned and begun to dance a jig. He was singing some off-tune ditty about how he had tried to tame a dragon himself. Before Gaemon could ask whether the song had truth to it, a long horn blast rang out, echoing around the courtyard.

"All kneel before his Royal Highness, Prince of Dragonstone, Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne and its associated titles."

As if in unison, the courtyard dropped to its knees, including Mushroom. Gaemon was so stunned and excited he took a half second to drop to a knee himself, thankfully being reminded by a friendly tug at his pant leg. Falling to one knee, Mushroom gave a quick wink. Keeping his head low, Gaemon couldn't believe it. He was about to meet his family. He had only ever known his mother's side, his grandparents and some more distantly related kin. He had imagined what his family might look like, if his father had a face akin to his own. At times, he had stared into the sea, imagining himself with deep purple eyes and silver hair that would have proven his parentage. He imagined himself astride a dragon, flying alongside beautiful and strong half-sisters and half-brothers, racing across the waves atop their dragons. _If this is Queen Rhaenyra's son, he would be my distant cousin_ , he thought to himself, before banishing such thoughts. _Do not put yourself in danger, Gaemon. For now you are Gaemon Waters, and only Waters._ He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely heard the boy's voice.

"Greetings, good man. My men tell me you call yourself Gaemon Waters. I know not if you know my family's history, but you are named for a renowned ancestor of mine own. I am pleased to see that yet another seed has proven successful. Taming the Cannibal was long thought to be impossible. You should take pride in your bravery, and the blood in your veins."

Gaemon remained facing the dirt. He longed to speak, but knew it wouldn't be proper. It was all he could do from shaking in excitement. _Today is proving more magnificent than any of my boyish fantasies._ A firm hand came to rest upon his shoulder, which he realized with disappointment was still clad in sheepskin.

"Rise, Gaemon Waters, I wish to speak with you. Your arrival is a great boon to my house, and my mother's cause."

Gaemon rose, eager to gaze upon the Prince. Warm brown eyes greeted him, where he'd expected purple. Brown hair fell in lazy curls about his head, where Gaemon expected white gold. Forcing his feelings of shock deep into the recesses of his mind, Gaemon rose. The Prince was dressed in his mother's colors, with a black doublet over a black shirt, with black trousers to match. A red, three headed dragon had been stitched elegantly across the doublet, completing the look. His shock at the Prince's unexpected appearance having subsided, Gaemon did have to admit the Prince cut a noble figure, strong for his age, only a few inches shorter than Gaemon himself, and with an intelligent yet kind look in his eyes.

Realizing he had not yet spoken, Gaemon's cheeks reddened. "Your words are too kind, my lo-Prince. I am honored to serve."

Taking his hand, Jacaerys Velaryon shook it firmly, giving Gaemon a brief smile before turning, beckoning for Gaemon to follow him.

"As the newest member of the dragonseeds, you are welcome here within Dragonstone, as a leal servant of House Targaryen and my mother, the Queen. As I have done for the others, I have instructed the castle tailor to prepare some new clothing for you. I daresay a dragonrider might wish for a wardrobe that is a bit more fitting for their station. That is, if you do not mind giving up your sheepskin and other accoutrements."

Gaemon smiled. "I suppose I could be persuaded to part with them."

Jacaerys grinned. "I am relieved you are proving reasonable. I must say, you do not speak like any of the smallfolk I have ever met. I mean no offense, you simply speak more in the style of a highborn."

Gaemon scowled. He couldn't exactly share his real reasons for learning the highborn manner of speaking, something the other village residents had mocked him for. "I have always longed to be a knight, and I have tried to learn to speak well so as to fit in amongst those whose ranks I wished to join."

This seemed to satisfy Jacaerys, as he nodded. "Well whatever your reasons, you make a positive impression, good man. The castle smith and armorer have been instructed to equip you with the finest armor and armaments they can, as you will represent my family on the field of battle, not just within courts. There will be no rusty mail nor pothelms for our dragonriders."

Having passed under a gateway shaped to resemble the open maw of a dragon, they had reached a smaller courtyard, adjacent to the one Gaemon had landed within. Low lying buildings lined the walls within this courtyard, and Gaemon assumed they were home to the castle guards. Reaching a slightly larger building, Jacaerys stopped in front of it.

"This was once the home of the captain of the guard. He has graciously allowed his home to be used as the dragonseeds' personal quarters. Beds have been provided, along with basic foodstuffs. Servants will come by with supper later. I can only imagine you are exhausted from your taming of such a ferocious beast. I encourage you to rest."

When Jacaerys had finished speaking, Gaemon realized the Prince was right, he _was_ exhausted. He said his heartfelt thanks to the Prince, and asked him to pass them along to the Queen. He wasn't sure if that was proper, but Jacaerys assured him he would. Entering the hut, he didn't see anyone else inside, so he entered an unoccupied room on the second floor. It had appeared the commander's former bedroom on the first floor was taken, along with the quarters which may have housed his lady wife. The rooms upstairs seemed unoccupied, so he took the one nearest to the stairwell. Entering, he stripped off his clothing (which to his chagrin he realized had reeked of sweat and smoke this entire time) and fell into the bed. He did not have to wait long for sleep to take him.

* * *

Gaemon awoke to a soft knocking at the door. "Are ye awake, m'lord?" A voice asked, sounding more than a bit scared.

He assumed this was a maid, or one of the other serving staff. He wondered what time it was. It was dark, but he felt well-rested.

"What hour is it?" He asked.

Responding just as timidly as before, the serving girl replied "the hour of the Nightingale is drawing to a close m'lord. Dawn approaches."

Gaemon blinked, shocked. Jacaerys' words had proven more correct than he had known. Standing, he wrapped himself in a blanket. "I am awake now, you may come in."

The door opened cautiously, and a brown-haired serving girl who looked to have been around her fifteenth or sixteenth nameday entered.

"The other servants had heated water for your bath, and they sent me to see if you were awake."

Gaemon laughed internally. _They probably wished to see if I still drew breath. With how scared the poor girl is, perhaps they told her I feed maidens to the Cannibal, or some other nonsense. That would certainly be the sort of trick Wat would've played at the inn._

He gave the girl an encouraging smile. "I certainly would like to bathe. Please thank them and have them bring the tub up."

The girl nodded. She continued to wait in the doorway, wringing her hands ever so slightly. Gaemon didn't understand why she stayed, until another thought crossed his mind. _Perhaps it's not a trick the servants are playing on her, perhaps it is experiences with the other dragonseeds that have her so terrified._ He scowled, before putting on a smile when he noticed she paled at his change in expression.

"That will be all, thank you. Where might I find the food with which to break my fast?" The girl, looking visibly relieved, told him that it would be served at the table downstairs. Gaemon nodded. "My thanks… my apologies, what is your name?"

She hesitated, and then with a slight smile, answered. "Serra, m'lord." Before leaving the room.

After bathing, Gaemon had opened the trunk at the base of his bed to find a black tunic emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon, alongside some black trousers and black leather boots. To his amusement the smallclothes themselves were black. _My family definitely has a favorite color_ , he thought to himself. The material with which the clothing was crafted was finer than anything he'd ever worn, velvet perhaps. Before leaving, he took the leather pouch and tied the string around his neck, tucking it underneath his tunic. Surveying the room one last time, something sitting on a table caught his eye. Standing before it, he realized it was a mirror. He had not seen such luxuries before, but now, standing before it, he gazed upon his reflection in the polished bronze. A tall, rather grim looking man stared back. He tried smiling. That helped a bit. His eyes glanced up, a faint hope lurking that somehow he'd spot some silver hair, or purple eyes. Instead, as with whenever he'd taken a look in still water, auburn hair and green eyes stared back. _Mother's look_ , he thought to himself, reminding himself to not be dissapointed. Turning, he strapped an ornate dagger (the handle appearing to be molded to look like a dragon's claw, unsurprisingly) to his waist and exited the room.

He had broken his fast with a rasher of bacon, some (still warm!) freshly baked brown bread, and some ale. Still finding no sign of the other seeds, he had exited his new home into the castle yard. Retracing his path from the day before, entering the main courtyard where he and the Cannibal had landed the day before. His dragon was curled against a wall clearly around something. The Cannibal appeared to be breaking its fast as well, and Gaemon paled, hoping he'd not decided to eat one of the servants making their rounds. _Or worse, a dragon from the hatcheries; he has been given his name for a reason._ He was afraid to confirm his suspicions, but his fears were thankfully alleviated when a stable boy informed him that they had slaughtered an ox earlier, and dragged it close enough that the Cannibal had been roused by the scent of its blood. They had fled before it had uncoiled, before snatching the corpse into its maw and returning to its current position. Deciding he'd leave the Cannibal to its meal, he turned and walked the rest of the distance to the forge, ducking under its great stone wings into the dark and smoky space within.

Once inside, it was clear that the smith was preparing for war. Newly forged blades, spear tips, axe heads, and pieces of armor were all kept in their own distinct piles, and apprentices worked at adding the finishing touches to them while the smith himself was hammering what looked to be another blade into shape. Approaching the master smith, the man raised his eyes from his work, regarding Gaemon with an inquisitive look.

"The new seed, eh? Welcome to my forge. I've received orders from the Prince ta outfit you."

Approaching Gaemon, he went about taking various measurements, suiting him in various pieces of armor (and apologizing when he caught some of Gaemon's hair in a gorget), before finally taking a step back. Bobbing his head twice quickly, he crossed his massive arms before speaking.

"Well m'lord, I'll get to work on a suit of plate for yer needs. Do ya have any weapons that ya prefer to use?"

Gaemon had feared a question along those lines, having never actually wielded a true sword. "I suppose I will take a sword." He said, after feigning a look of contemplation.

The smith, looking rather amused, nodded in affirmation. "A good blade of castle forged steel won't let ya down. I'll get to work on it myself. Wouldn't want ya to have to use any of the plowshares these dolts have been making" he said, nodding towards the apprentices scurrying around the forge. "I'll send a runner when everything is done. Good craftsmanship takes time." Leaning closer to Gaemon, he whispered: "In the meantime, ya might want to head over to the practice yard ta learn the basics." Winking, he chuckled and returned to his work.

Leaving the forge, Gaemon couldn't help but be a bit disappointed in the fact that the smith hadn't been fooled by his facade. He had intended to begin practicing, but it was clear to him now that the matter was even more urgent than he had believed previously. He asked for directions from a guard, and was soon led to a courtyard to the north of the main courtyard, where the sound of grunting and the clashing of metal and wood could be heard. He was beginning to craft a mental map of Dragonstone's citadel, which had several concentric walls expanding outwards from the central keep, which was called the Stone Drum. The innermost wall was the highest, the space within was divided into four courtyards, with the forge in the largest, including a gate leading out of the first of the walls, into the space between the innermost wall and the next ring of fortifications. The maester's home, the Sea Dragon Tower, was located in that space. The barracks that served as his new home was located in the southernmost of the four inner courtyards, while the sparring yard was in the northernmost. The final of the four courtyards, the easternmost, was where the castle dragons were kept. It seemed none were particularly eager to attempt to encourage the Cannibal to move there. _Perhaps it is for the best_ , Gaemon thought. _He'd likely decide to eat one of the smaller ones, and I cannot always be around to throw things at him when he makes a poor decision_.

Turning his attention back to the courtyard, he waited at the edge of the ring for the current sparring match to end. It appeared that there were two teams facing one another, composed of the members of Queen Rhaenyra's household knights. While Gaemon had expected them to use live steel in their mock fights, he soon realized their weapons were wooden. He supposed that made sense, as spilling the blood of your fellow brothers in arms seemed like a wasteful preparatory exercise. The current match looked to be drawing to its conclusion, as a knight with a grey gambeson emblazoned with the image of a burning tree struck his last opponent mightily over the helmet with his wooden blade. The other knight, cursing, stepped back, and raised his blade in a salute to his opponent, before stepping out of the ring. Cheers echoed around the yard as the knight with the flaming tree raised his wooden sword above his head, before bowing to his 'fallen' teammates and enemies. A young boy rushed out into the ring bearing a white cloak, and after the knight had affixed it around his shoulders, Gaemon realized with a start that he was in the presence of a member of Queen Rhaenyra's Queensguard.

Shouts of "Bravo! Ser Marbrand!" and "Well fought, Ser Lorent!" soon assigned a name to the knight.

Seeing Gaemon in the crowd, Marbrand approached him, the men in attendance to the spectacle parting to allow him to pass. Reaching him, he extended his mailed hand. "Taming the Cannibal was no small feat."

Shaking his hand, Gaemon nodded his thanks. "Kind words, Ser. I must admit however the process was decidedly less glorious than I had imagined it would be beforehand. I nearly became his supper."

Ser Lorent nodded, grimly. "Twas good that was not the fate the Seven had ordained for you. Mine own Lord Commander, Ser Steffon Darklyn, fell to the flames of the dragon Seasmoke. I mourn his loss, for he was a most puissant knight."

Gaemon nodded, remembering the guardsmen discussing Darklyn's unfortunate demise several nights before. He could scarcely believe all that transpired since then.

Ser Lorent's face then lightened a bit, as he spoke again. "Alas, to fixate on grim memories is not productive. Have you come to the yard to spar?"

Gaemon nodded.

"Well then," said Marbrand, "I will be your teacher today. It would not do for one of our Queen's newest champions to not know his way around a blade." Gaemon wasn't sure he liked the vicious smile Ser Marbrand gave him as he said those words.

* * *

The next several hours had been gruelling. Marbrand was a good teacher, but he punished failure harshly. Usually this meant the crack of his wooden sword across whatever part of the body Gaemon had left exposed. _Wielding a blade is not as easy as he makes it seem_ , Gaemon thought to himself during one of his many breaks, as he greedily gulped down water from a flask offered to him. Gaemon was far more exhausted than he had expected to be; he hadn't expected simply maintaining his guard with a shield would require so much exertion. _It doesn't help that I keep forgetting to breathe when the sparring actually starts_ , he thought with a frown. Ser Lorent had explained that that was often a mistake made by novices, one that often proved fatal. Gaemon was learning some important lessons, but he already could tell this was a process that would likely take years. It was also frustrating that he was so far behind in his training when compared with the knights and squires around him. _If I had been a prince, mayhaps I'd already be a master_. Pushing such unproductive thoughts out of his head, he rose, and returned to the ring.

After three more sparring sessions, Gaemon was pleased that by the end of the day he had managed to survive Ser Lorent's onslaught for at least two heart beats before being struck down. He'd only managed to throw his own attacks a handful of times, and Marbrand had always caught them on his shield effortlessly, but nonetheless he was still pleased with himself. It felt good to be taking steps forward with regards to his swordsmanship. _And besides, it's unlikely I would be able to find a better teacher than Ser Lorent, a Queensguard member!_ He was lost in his thoughts as he stripped the sweat-soaked practice armor off, but was brought back to the present by the sound of horns blaring and echoing across the castle walls. He remembered similar sounds when he himself had been descending atop the Cannibal towards the courtyard. His suspicions were confirmed as a pale grey-white dragon descended from the evening clouds, circling the castle, before descending towards the courtyard to land. He strained to see who was atop the creature, but was shocked when he spotted such a familiar form atop the dragon. _Maegor!_ Elated, Gaemon began to run towards the courtyard where his friend had landed.

As he approached, he grinned to himself. _So his dreams of the Grey Ghost WERE true. He wasn't simply lying for attention as a child._ Maegor's brothers had never put much stock in their younger brother's insistent claims, and Gaemon found himself regretting that he hadn't believed their veracity himself. Reaching the edge of the crowd, he found himself glad for his height, as he could see over the assembled smallfolk to where Maegor stood, looking quite pleased with himself. He appeared to be speaking with one of the two guards who had visited the inn the other evening. The guard's face was grim. Maegor was listening intently, and his expression began to change. Instead of elation, there was a terrible sadness etched across his features. He seemed to be pushing for more information, but the guard shook his head, sadness etched across his own face as well. Looking completely devastated, Maegor turned from the crowd and leaned against the Ghost, and was racked with sobs. When Prince Jacaerys emerged to greet him, Maegor managed to compose himself, but his features remained marked with grief.

From the murmurs of the crowd, Gaemon learned the truth. Maegor's father, Silver Denys and his two oldest sons, Aegon and Aenys, had gone in search of the Sheepstealer. Finding the dragon, they had failed to tame it, and had been devoured. Gaemon was shocked, but more importantly, he grieved for his friend. When the Prince allowed Maegor to rise, he seemed to offer his condolences, and led him off towards the barracks quietly, speaking softly to him. Gaemon couldn't hear any of their conversation, but it seemed the Prince was attempting to offer some words of sympathy. They disappeared beneath a draconic arch, and Gaemon was left with the shock of the awful turn of events. He couldn't imagine such loss. He had never known either of his parents, and had no siblings of his own. He wasn't sure if his condolences would be of much worth to Maegor, but he followed, determined to try to help somehow.

* * *

The next week had been marred by his friend's loss. Maegor had changed, becoming quieter, and had spent several days in quiet contemplation, often finding a secluded spot to watch the sea from the citadel's walls. They ate meals together, but spoke little. Gaemon wanted to help Maegor, but often couldn't find the words to say. His characteristic humor would be of little use. He continued to spar in the yard with Ser Lorent, but hadn't been successful in convincing Maegor to join the matches. He had hoped that at the very least that sparring would allow him to focus on something else. He had offered to take him to the smith, after he had received word that his armor was ready, thinking while he was fitted Maegor's measurements could be taken. Once more, Maegor had simply shook his head in the negative. Gaemon decided it was best to simply let him process his grief in whatever manner would be best for him.

In time, other seeds had proven successful in taming the remaining dragons. Addam Velaryon, the supposed bastard son of Laenor Velaryon, former husband to the Queen, had been brought from Driftmark alongside his brother Alyn. Each had sought to tame a dragon, but only Addam had proven successful in taming Seasmoke. Alyn had tried to tame the Sheepstealer, and only a timely intervention of his brother and Seasmoke had prevented him from suffering the same fate as Silver Denys. Addam and Alyn, being the acknowledged grandsons of Corlys Velaryon, had been able to live in the Storm Drum alongside their grandsire. Watching them enter the Storm Drum had stung. _How lucky they are, to have a family that recognizes their parentage_ , he had thought. He had learned that his father wasn't even present on Dragonstone soon after; Daemon Targaryen had taken Harrenhal, the greatest of the castles of Westeros, during the beginning of the war and had been assembling a loyalist host there ever since.

Gaemon had also finally been able to meet the seeds who had tamed dragons before him, Hugh and Ulf the White. Their frequent absences had been due to their nightly drinking bouts at the tavern in the town below the castle. They had only returned to the citadel for funds to continue their drinking, when they had been told that the drinks on the house had run dry and they 'had best pay up.' Apparently Hugh had beaten the innkeep senseless, but had been reminded by a guard that they served the Queen, and were to maintain peace in her name.

Upon their return, they had sized Gaemon up, and when he told them he had tamed the Cannibal, they'd grinned and offered their congratulations. Their smiles had not reached their eyes, however. _I suspect they do not enjoy being outperformed_ , Gaemon had thought to himself. They had nonetheless encouraged Gaemon to join them for a night of debauchery, and he had assured them that he would at some point. He had been sorely tempted, but had resolved not to go as he felt it would not be right to abandon Maegor.

* * *

Two weeks after Gaemon had arrived atop the Cannibal, another dragon had appeared in the skies above the citadel. Roaring its greetings to the dragons below, it had landed in the main courtyard, to be greeted by the smallfolk, as was customary by this point. The dragon was a mud-brown color, and was quickly identified by the crowd to be the Sheepstealer. Gaemon had rushed to the courtyard from his sparring alongside Ser Lorent to see the newest dragonseed rider. Many had speculated about whether the Sheepstealer would actually be tamed, as the dragon had claimed more victims than any other during the 'Sowing of the Seeds' as the previous few weeks had come to be known.

Mutters and shocked whispers had already begun to circulate amidst the crowd as Gaemon and Ser Lorent arrived at its edge. Gaemon quickly found the source of the people's shock. Sitting atop the Sheepstealer was a young woman, with brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes. Gaemon couldn't help but grin. _Finally, someone has tamed a dragon whilst looking even less like a dragonlord than me_.

The girl hopped down from her mount, and quickly surveyed the crowd with a serious expression, before cracking a grin that sported crooked teeth. She then spoke, exclaiming: "taming this ugly son of a bitch proved thirsty work. Who will be a kind ser and buy this girl a fucking drink?"

Exclamations rang out amidst the crowd, and many shook their heads at the girl's unladylike ways. She had begun to frown as she looked for volunteers until she and Gaemon made eye contact, and her grin returned when she saw he had raised his hand.

After the girl had knelt to Prince Jacaerys and been shown her new quarters, she quickly found Gaemon, where he had been waiting at a respectful distance, not wanting to intrude on her moment with Prince Jacaerys.

Approaching him, her characteristic grin returned. "So you're my noble knight, come to take me away for a night of drinking and celebration?"

Gaemon grinned. "My lady, there are quite a few things wrong with that fantasy. I am no knight, nor am I very noble. But I will certainly drink with you."

The girl nodded. "Knights are pompous arses anyways. Only knights I've ever seen have been atop horses, giving orders and acting as though they shit gold. I'd rather drink with other 'urchins' as they so like to call me."

Gaemon laughed. "I used to empty chamber pots myself. You'll find no greater urchin than myself."

The girl turned to face him, extending her hand. "They call me Nettles, by the way. That'd be because my words sting."

Gaemon shook her hand. "They call me Gaemon, because, well, that's not important."

Nettles shrugged. "It is nice to meet you Gaemon. Now are we to drink alone? Do you wish to seduce me? Or are we to have some additional boon companions?"

Gaemon smiled. "We have a few others to find. I mean for all the seeds to meet tonight, in celebration of the final dragon being tamed."

Nettles raised a dark eyebrow. "You're a seed?"

Gaemon nodded. "I tamed the Cannibal."

Nettles gave an impressive whistle. "Fuck me. I didn't think anyone was _that_ stupid. Guess I was wrong."

Gaemon imitated Mushroom's voice, saying "Well, I always have a had a strong dash of stupid in me blood, m'lady."

Nettles laughed. "You sound like that dwarf that danced for me when I landed earlier. What a talented mummer you are."

 _You have no idea,_ thought Gaemon _._

* * *

It took some cajoling, but Gaemon had managed to convince Maegor to join them. After asking a castle servant to pass on a message, they had waited for a quarter of an hour until Addam and Alyn had appeared in the entryway, descending the steps of the Stone Drum to join them. After some initial introductions, they had all made their way down the winding path, through the concentric curtain walls into the fishing village. Reaching the tavern, raucous laughter emanated from within.

Nettles was the first to enter, after declaring it appeared 'her type of place'. Addam and Alyn shared a look, grinning, their purple eyes shining, and entered after. Gaemon turned to Maegor, and beckoned for him to enter. After casting his gaze about, he did so, wordlessly. Once inside the source of the laughter became apparent. Ulf and Hugh were already well into their cups, each with a whore on their knee. Nettles, Gaemon, and Maegor sat across from them, while Addam and Alyn pulled stools up at the foot of the table, eerily mimicking each other's actions. Gaemon decided that even though they were not, in fact, twins, he found it hard to tell them apart. They were small, quick, and both had a gleaming intelligence behind their eyes. Addam, the older of the two, was taller, but still was a head shorter than Gaemon, and closer to a foot shorter than Maegor. They both shared silver hair, which they kept cut short. _Of us all, they certainly fit the part of dragonseed the best._ Ulf had white hair as well, but hazel eyes shown from beneath his locks. Hugh was massive, and pale blonde of hair. His blue eyes were the color of the sea. The Valyrian resemblance dropped off markedly after him, when considering the other seeds.

They had all quickly ordered pints to match those in the hands of Ulf and Hugh, while Gaemon, Addam, Alyn and Nettles had ordered meat pies to serve as their supper. They each began to share tales of their dragontaming experiences, with Alyn listening wistfully.

When it came time for Nettles to speak, she was already in her cups. Standing with a proud grin, she began. "It is honestly a great surprise to me that my Sheepstealer had not been tamed when I arrived from Spicetown on Driftmark. The key was in the beast's name. Each day, I fed him a sheep, and over time, he stopped acting as though he wished to eat me as well. Why that was so hard for the fools that tried before me, I will never understand. Sheepstealer certainly ate his fill of them in the days before my arrival."

Gaemon began to scowl as she spoke. His eyes looked into the faces of each seed, noting the laughter of Hugh and Ulf, then the quiet simmering anger of Addam and Alyn. Then he saw Maegor's face.

An odd light burned behind his storm grey-blue eyes. Gaemon saw the rage building, and it matched his own. _Had Nettles truly not heard the stories of the victims of Sheepstealer? Or did she simply not care?_

He considered speaking his mind, when Maegor spoke quietly. "Some of those 'fools' were my father and brothers."

The table grew silent, and Nettles paled, her grin faltering. Seeing four pairs of eyes looking at her, the rage simmering, she looked down at her tankard. A few moments passed before she spoke.

"I am sorry. I didn't know. The drink got to me." She looked first to Maegor, then to Alyn, whose bandaged scars were visible under his tunic. "I won't make that mistake again." The tension began to dissipate.

It continued to do so until Ulf spoke, slurring his words: "Bugger that, girl. I say shtick to your wordsh. Those men were fools. They're gone, we are here. We are the shtrong ones."

With that, Maegor rose, clenching his fists, staring enraged at Ulf. Hugh shoved the girl off of his knee, and sat up, less drunk than he appeared, his massive muscles tensing. Glaring, Maegor stood in silence at both.

Gaemon, gripping his dagger, turned to Ulf. "Speak like that to my friend again, and you will know what it is to be fed to a dragon."

After he had spoken, he realised the inn was deafeningly quiet. Addam and Alyn looked from Maegor to him, then from Hugh to Ulf, before gripping their own daggers. Gaemon noticed Nettles was tense, and held a blade of her own under the table. He wasn't sure which side the other seeds would take, but the likely fight was prevented by the arrival of a citadel guard.

"Gaemon Waters, your presence is demanded by the Prince of Dragonstone. I ask you to follow me immediately."

Gaemon, confused, stood, and after casting one last gaze and Ulf and Hugh, allowed himself to be led from the tavern. Behind him, he saw the other seeds leave and disperse in the night, leaving Ulf and Hugh to their cups.


	5. Baela I

**Baela I**

From within the gatehouse, Baela straightened her leather jerkin over her shirt. Brushing a few motes of dust (or perhaps ash?) from it, she decided it was as spotless as it was ever going to be. _Stop fussing sis_. She could hear Rhaena's mocking tone in her mind, even if she wasn't physically there to infuriatingly point out Baela's signs of impatience and nervousness. _Even from the Eyrie, my dearest twin still somehow makes her presence known_ , Baela thought to herself, amused. In the time since her sister's departure, Baela had found it difficult to adjust to just how empty Dragonstone had begun to feel. Since their birth, she and her twin had always been close, sharing their fleeting crushes on squires together, organizing pranks, and changing clothing to see if anyone would be able to tell them apart. Many hadn't realized that despite some rather obvious differences, they had always been more alike than different. _Just because Rhaena likes dresses and I do not doesn't mean we are not close_ , she thought to herself. _Which is why I wish she were here now. Rhaena would know what to do, or at least have good advice._ The moment Baela had heard the rumors, she had known she had to meet this supposed 'half-brother' of hers. At first, she had been enraged. Apparently, in his home village, this upjumped peasant had been well known for claiming to be the son of Prince Daemon Targaryen. Baela could not believe it. _Had father been privy to that, he'd have had his tongue out,_ she thought with a satisfied grin.

Another part of her was less eager to see the man punished. _Father has always been a proud man, and I'd be a fool to believe he'd never sired any bastards._ Nevertheless, it was humiliating to hear the seed had been speaking so. _Is this man a fool?_ She had thought upon first hearing the rumors. The Queen was never particularly forgiving, but with her miscarriage and Lucerys' death her cousin Rhaenyra had become a shade of her former self. She had barely left her chambers, and most of the food sent up to her quarters returned untouched. _If she were to receive word that one of the seeds was traipsing around proclaiming royal bastardy, her cruelty would be legendary_. _If this man really is father's son, he'd best learn to keep his mouth shut_. Baela was thankful Mushroom had sung a tune of the Prince's seed in her presence first. If he had sung to anyone else of it, the dragonseed may have been killed long before Baela could discern if there were any truth to his claims.

 _I'll get to the bottom of this either way._ She had initially been excited for this meeting, but now that she was actually at the designated meeting spot she found her stomach twisting in knots. _If he lies, I must needs tell the Queen. Our enemies cannot be allowed any more opportunities to slander our Queen._ She pitied him if that were to be the course she had to take. _What if… what if he is my blood?_ A voice rose unbidden. _Mother died giving birth to a younger brother for my sister and I. Aegon and Viserys are sweet boys, but their status as Princes means we have never been allowed to truly treat them as our brothers. At least not formally._ She frowned. The Queen would never approve, and it was unlikely that father would either. Once more, she wished Rhaena was there to give advice. _At least sister would approve of how smoothly I arranged this meeting,_ she thought to herself with a smirk.

Once Baela had decided upon meeting the dragonseed, it had been easy enough to sneak out, just as she would have on other nights to explore the citadel by night. As a Targaryen, even if she were caught she could simply cow any who found her, making sure they'd not reveal that she had broken her curfew. The last step had also been easy; she had found one of the guards she remembered her father had brought from King's Landing and simply asked him to deliver her message. _The Prince of Dragonstone indeed_ , she thought with a smirk. _If this dragonseed had any sense he'd have realized that my betrothed would never summon him at such an hour._ Glancing at her candle she held, she judged she had only been gone from her chambers for perhaps thirty minutes. _I have plenty of time_ , she thought.

Only a few minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door. The door opened to reveal the familiar face of her father's man. _Pate is his name, if I remember correctly. I'll have to see that he is rewarded for this, as he has put himself in a great deal of danger for my own sake_. Pate entered, nodded in respect to Baela, then motioned for a tall man who had been following him to enter. "Ya have but a few moments with the Lady, Gaemon Waters. I'll be listening, so mind your manners." Turning to Baela, he followed with "M'lady, one word, and I'll be back. This un' might be big, but I'll kick his sorry arse all the same if there's any trouble." Bowing, he closed the door behind him.

The man immediately dropped to one knee, his face facing the floor. When she bid him to rise, she was finally able to observe the dragonseed from up close, instead of from one of the Stone Drum's lancets. Baela had to stifle a laugh. _THIS man was her half brother? She had known he had hair of an auburn color, but had at least assumed he'd have eyes of purple or violet to lend some credence to his claim_. Instead, green eyes regarded her with a mixture of interest and surprise. Breaking the silence, he spoke. "Forgive me, my lady, but I fear there has been some mistake. I have had the honor of meeting the Prince of Dragonstone, and I daresay I believe he was decidedly less _female_."

Baela realized that he was jesting, and she found herself already annoyed with this dragonseed. "You speak true, good man. I fear that I purposely misled you here. I am not my betrothed, as you have so _wisely_ deduced. Instead you find yourself speaking to Lady Baela Targaryen, the daughter of the Prince rumors say _you_ claim is your father. I have cometo determine whether there is any veracity to those rumors. I would advise you to choose your next few words very carefully."

Her words had an effect on the man, as he pursed his lips in apparent contemplation. His right hand raised from his side, and began to play with a pouch he had slung around his neck. The humor that had danced in his eyes had faded, replaced with something akin to sadness. "I had hoped that the rumors would not have followed me from my old home." He began. "I mean no disrespect, my lady. But those rumors you have heard are true. I do claim to be the son of your lord father." Baela wasn't sure what she had expected him to say when she accused him, but she certainly hadn't expected an admission, at least not initially. Her initial wrath had subsided, and she wasn't exactly sure how to react. Once again, she wished her sister were there, to assist with this process.

"So you do not deny them, then." Baela began. "You must realize how hard I find it to believe you. Seven hells, I at least expected you to have eyes of Valyrian purple. Instead, you look more like a Trout than a Dragon." Pleased with her metaphor, she continued. "You must have some sort of proof, to back your claim. Otherwise you couldn't expect anyone to believe you."

Once more his hand flew to the pouch around his neck. He clearly was thinking about how to respond, and apparently made up his mind, as he began to speak. "I do have proof, my lady, but I fear it may not be the sort that would befit a woman of your station…"

Cutting him off by raising her hand, she spoke: "Save me the speech about preserving my virtue as a lady, I hear that sort of drivel from my septas. You either have proof, or you do not." The corners of the dragonseed's lips curled upwards, ever so slightly, before returning to rest in a neutral expression. Reaching to the pouch hanging from his neck, he opened it, pulling a golden dragon from within. Placing it in his palm, he held it out to her.

Grabbing the dragon from his palm, she held it in the candlelight. She could tell by touch it was real. On one side, her house's sigil was emblazoned, and flipping it to the other, she saw it featured the likeness of her uncle, the former king Viserys I. The coin had evidently been minted early in his reign, as he appeared much younger than her memories of him. Such coins were rare, as they were often recalled by the royal mint when it produced new coins every so often. Baela was certainly intrigued, as she did not expect a former member of the smallfolk to possess a coin of such value. _Even so, he could have won it at dice, or stolen it_. Turning to him, she pulled back her hood, revealing her cropped hair and Valyrian features. "Tell me dragonseed, what _exactly_ does this coin prove?"

The dragonseed sighed. "Prince Daemon Targaryen is famous on this island amongst the small folk. Many maidens have dreamt of becoming his secret love, even for a night. My mother was lucky enough to be granted that request. What she did not realize was that the Prince was not looking for a lover, but a _whore_. When he was done with her, he paid her that coin. My mother was no whore. She died birthing me, but kept the coin. She must have known it was the only way I'd ever be able to prove my parentage. No small folk on the island possess such great wealth." He sighed. "I realize now that I was a fool to proclaim my heritage so boldly. It could only ever be taken as a slight or as a threat to the trueborn members of my father's house." Looking at her, his shoulders sagged. "You have my story, my Lady. What do you plan to do with it?"

Baela usually thought of herself as a woman with all the answers. She had none now. Silently, she handed the dragonseed the coin back. "If you are wondering whether I plan to tell the Queen, you may rest easy. I will not condemn you to such a cruel fate." She had heard the rumors about her father, and despite the dragonseed's appearance, he told the story with such strong conviction that she found herself wondering if it might be true. _He did tame the Cannibal after all. He has the blood of the dragon, whether it be from my father's veins or another._ "I would advise you to not tell your story to anyone else on this island. Few are as merciful as I when it comes to such indiscretions."

The man once more fell to one knee, nodding his ascent. "Thank you, my Lady, I will not forget your kindness."

Nodding, Baela placed a hand on his shoulder. "What is your name, dragonseed?" Returning her gaze, the man smiled wanly. "I am called Gaemon Waters, my Lady." _Even his name isn't exactly a subtle proclamation_ , Baela thought wryly. Giving Gaemon's shoulder a squeeze, Baela spoke: "I ask that you serve our Queen well, Gaemon Waters. And please do be a leal servant of my betrothed. I fear he is in need of loyal men now more than ever." With that, she drew her hood back up over her head, and exited, nodding to Pate as she exited the tower.

* * *

Baela had not slept well the night afterwards. She had of course heard the rumors of her father's infidelities, but rumors were one thing, while a possible half-brother was quite another. The man who had raised her was fierce, but loving in his own way, and had made it clear he adored 'his princesses', which he insisted on calling Baela and Rhaena even after King Viserys had forbade that they be given the title. Eventually, during what must have been the midst of the Hour of the Nightingale, she rose and called for a servant. She decided she would start early with a bath, as the heat would help to wake her and clear her head for the coming day.

Once the water had been heated and the tub filled, she stripped her sleeping gown off and entered the water, which had been heated to the verge of boiling (just as she liked it). What others would have found harmfully hot, she found soothing. Waving her maidservants off, she allowed herself to relax, the steam rising off the water in silvery wisps and caressing her face. _This must be how dragons feel within the Dragonmont,_ she thought to herself contentedly. She relaxed in the water until it had begun to cool, only then beginning to scrub herself with the bristled brush (she had long insisted she be allowed to bathe herself, she was too impatient to allow serving girls to scrub her). When she felt appropriately pristine, she rose from the tub and dried herself, noting with appreciation she still was maintaining her toned form. _Let Rhaena have her womanly beauty,_ she thought. _I will be the next Visenya._ Drying her hair, she once more found herself appreciating how she kept it short. _Convenient both for flying and drying it, 'conventional fashion' be damned._

She chose an outfit akin to what she had worn the day previously, but of finer materials. Despite the protestations of the courtiers, she always had gravitated to outfits that emphasized practicality, meaning that dresses almost never featured in her wardrobe. Today, it would be a black riding shirt, leather pants, and knee-high boots. As she made the final decisions on her outfit, she decided on wearing a ruby three-headed dragon pendant her father had given to her on her last name day. _A bauble fitting for a princess_. She allowed it to hang about her neck, and unbuttoned her shirt enough to allow it to be seen. _I might as well give Jacaerys something to look at_ , she thought with a smirk. _Perhaps that will provide him the incentive to go through with our marriage._

Exiting her chambers, she ascended the stairs of the Stone Drum in order to reach the chamber of the Painted Table, where she knew Jacaerys would be planning his next move. With the dragonseeds proving more successful than any had hoped for, Baela could sense her betrothed was eager to utilize their new-found overwhelming superiority to take King's Landing. When she entered the chamber, she found the room filled with more people than she had expected for an hour so early, as the sun had still not yet risen over the horizon. Maester Gerardys, his chain hanging about his neck, stood observing from the side of the table, alongside Lord Bonnifer Bar Emmon in his tabard of white and silver. Across from them, seated in an elevated chair where Dragonstone would have been depicted on the map, Jacaerys sat, pondering the crownlands where the Blackwater Rush entered the bay. Standing to Jacaerys' right were Lord Corlys Velaryon and his newly legitimized grandsons, Addam and Alyn. Completing the array of notable individuals were Ser Lorent Marbrand in his white cloak and Lord Bartimos Celtigar in his white tabard bedecked in red crabs.

Raising his head to acknowledge her entrance, Jacaerys smiled, his warm brown eyes glinting. "Welcome cos. We are just finishing up our plan to deliver nuncle Aegon a nasty surprise. We have chosen the first full moon of the new year as the date. My mother's reign will truly begin once she sits the Iron Throne, and I cannot think of a better time to topple the usurper than the beginning of a new year."

Smiling wolfishly, Baela nodded. "I'm sure the usurper will be very pleased to see you, cos. So pleased he might just shit himself." Maester Gerardys tutted, undoubtedly disapproving of her obscene choice of wording.

Lord Corlys, suppressing a smile, spoke: "That is certainly not appropriate language for one of your station, granddaughter. I'm fairly certain I met Qartheen sailors with mouths less than half as foul."

Jacaerys snorted. "My betrothed's choice of vocabulary aside, let us return to the plan. On the determined date, the newly assembled dragonseeds and I will fly alongside my mother to King's Landing. We shall be joined in the skies above the city by Prince Daemon, who has been informed of the date of our attack. If the sight of eight dragons above the city is not enough to cow the usurper, we will instead rip the three dragons he can muster to shreds. I do so hope the kinslayer chooses to fight. Avenging my brother upon dragonback will prove much sweeter than simply striking Aemond's head from his shoulders." Jacaerys' face darkened with anger. Sighing, he continued: "Lord Corlys, you will use your fleet to carry the men of Lord Bar Emmon and Celtigar to the city. The sight of so many dragons should prove more than enough to pacify any potential resistance, but boots on the ground can never hurt. Prince Daemon assures me that the Gold Cloaks are still his men, but I'd prefer to have men of proven loyalty around me. With any luck, the fall of the city will bring this war to a quick end. The traitors will have their lands and titles seized, and will then be executed, or allowed to take the black if they so choose. My mother will finally sit her rightful throne, and this bloodletting will be brought to a close."

Lord Corlys and the other assembled nobles nodded their assent. Baela was pleased to see how well Jacaerys had taken to ruling in his mother's stead; it appeared the Lords were pleased to still have a strong leader. Queen Rhaenyra was still noticeably absent; the death of Lucerys had been devastating, and she clearly still mourned for her second son. _Perhaps the chance to take King's Landing and the Iron Throne will reignite some of that flame within her_ , Baela thought to herself.

"Is there any word of our brothers, Jacaerys? From what I can recall, they should be well on their way towards Pentos by now." Baela asked.

"As of yet, there has been no word. I wouldn't think that should be any cause for concern, though. The ravens kept on the _Gay Abandon_ were only to be used in the case of a dire emergency. Besides, Lord Velaryon provided several escort galleys." Jacaerys responded.

Baela had opened her mouth to respond when horns began to sound from without the castle walls. _Those horns mark the approach of a dragon rider,_ she thought to herself with a start. _Surely the usurper would not be so foolish as to attack us here._ The others must have heard the alarms as well, as Jacaerys hopped down from his chair, looking just as confused. He rushed through the doors of the chamber, with Baela and the assembled council in tow. After descending the steps, they excited the Stone Drum in time to see a young, darkly hued dragon descending into the courtyard, before crashing onto the cobblestone. Countless arrows protruded from its bleeding stomach, and a larger bolt had pierced its neck. The dragon hissed in agony, as black steaming blood poured from its wounds. It was as the dragon flailed upon the stones that Baela noticed the young boy finally release his death-like grip and fall to the cobblestone off of its back.

"Aegon!" She cried as she ran to embrace her younger half-brother. He was shaking, and as soon as she took him into her arms, he began to be wracked with sobs. His small body shook, and was nearly cold to the touch with terror.

"Th-th-they have Vis-Viserys B-B-Baela." He choked into her shoulder. "I f-flew away, but had to l-l-leave him." Upon uttering those words, Aegon's sobs became even more heart wrenching.

Warm arms wrapped around them both as Jacaerys took them both into his embrace tightly. "Don't worry brother, we will get Viserys back. I _promise_ you that. You were brave to escape them! You showed our enemies you were a true dragon."

If Jacaerys' words had any effect, Aegon did not show it. He continued to sob, undoubtedly coming to terms with the abandonment of his brother and the death of his dragon, to say nothing of his terror.

As the three of them stayed locked in an embrace, Baela heard a voice she'd not heard in weeks cry out from the steps of the Stone Drum. Running, holding her skirts to allow her to move more quickly, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms hurried as quickly as she could down the steps of the Stone Drum, shouting "Aegon!" Reaching their group, she pulled Aegon into her embrace, holding him against her while she scanned the courtyard with eyes puffy from recent tears. None of said tears remained in her eyes, however. Her violet eyes blazed with a terrifying rage. Scanning the courtyard, she took note of Aegon's dying dragon, the assembled Lords, and the rapidly gathering crowd. As she ran her hands through Aegon's hair, she turned to Jacaerys. "Find the men who did this, Jacaerys. Bring them Fire and Blood."

Maester Gerardys had quickly gone to the Sea Dragon Tower, returning with messages from ravens that had just arrived. Paling, he spoke: "It appears the Triarchy has amassed a great fleet in order to strike us, my Queen. The outermost vessels of Lord Velaryon's fleet are reporting dozens of war galleys approaching the Gullet."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed with hate. "They will pay a thousand-fold for their crimes. If only my Lord Husband were here to see to it personally. He knows well how to deal with scum from the Three Whores." Once more, she turned to Jacaerys. "Son, my order stands. Bring honor to your mother and Queen, and flame to these animals. It is time to test the mettle of these dragonriders you have assembled."

Nodding, Jacaerys turned to the crowd that had assembled. Baela could make out the faces of several of the seeds she had glimpsed from within the Stone Drum previously, included a gangly white-haired man with a face that appeared to be perpetually flushed with drink, a massive man whose arms resembled those of a smith, Addam Velaryon, and the girl who was brown of skin and dark of hair. Lastly, she spotted the last two of their number, a tall man with brown hair and eyes the color of a storm, and of course, Gaemon Waters. Her eyes locked with Gaemon's eyes, and he nodded gravely, seemingly saying: _you have my word that I will burn these men to ash_.

Jacaerys, also having surveyed the crowd, appeared to be pleased that all of the riders had already assembled. "Dragonseeds, step forward" he began, "it is on a day as grave as this that I find myself truly grateful that you answered my call. Men from across the Narrow Sea have come to put Dragonstone and Driftmark to the sack and enslave their peoples in the name of Aegon, the usurper. Today I ask you to make good on your pledges to my house and my mother, the Queen. Together we will bring Fire and Blood to these men, these rapid dogs. We will help them to remember what their fathers and grandfathers before them forgot. We will teach them that they are never, ever to cross the Blood of the Dragon! When they see wings on the horizon, I want them to feel one thing, and one thing only: Terror! Will you fight with me today?"

The dragonseeds, having all stepped forward, all had adopted grave expressions upon their faces. They were silent, each grimly contemplating what they were about to do. _Or perhaps regretting their commitments?_ A voice asked from within Baela's mind. Gaemon, casting looks at the other seeds, was the first to step forward. "I will fly with you today, my Prince. Fire and Blood!" He shouted her House's words, his eyes alight. "Fire and Blood!" Cried the other seeds. Jacaerys smiled grimly, and Baela saw his expression was matched on his mother's face.

The next few minutes dissolved into absolute chaos, as the dragons were all led into the central courtyard in order to be equipped. Many, such as Vermax, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and Silverwing accepted their saddles without complaint. For the three who had previously been untamed, the process was much more challenging. The towering seed approached his pale grey-white dragon, the so-called Grey Ghost, and after placing a hand on its head, beckoned the attendants forward, who were able to saddle the dragon without much incident. The ugly brown dragon, called Sheep Stealer by the smallfolk, initially snapped and roared at those surrounding it until its rider brought it a sheep to feed upon. It hissed as it was saddled, but made no further threatening movements.

The last dragon, a great black monstrosity with eyes of an otherworldly green shade, was the most resistant to the process. It roared, shaking the courtyard with its rage before rising and spewing a great gout of green flame that matched its eyes into the air. Snapping at the brown dragon that was nearest to it, it lowered itself to the cobblestones, hissing and billowing steam from its maw as it glanced balefully around. Gaemon approached it with his black dragon whip and cracked it about the dragon's head, forcing it to heel. Only after he had seemingly forced it back under control did he allow for the attendants to approach. The dragon lunged at the first attendant, but was once more driven back by the whip. Hissing ferociously, it finally allowed itself to be saddled. _The Cannibal certainly lives up to its name_ , Baela thought to herself.

Once the dragons had been saddled, squires and knights emerged from the armory carrying the newly prepared sets of armor for the dragonseeds. They were quickly helped to suit up, putting on their black and red gambesons, followed by black mail, and lastly the dark black plate armor itself. All of the dragonseed's breastplates were fitted with a red three-headed dragon. The girl was given a modified suit of black leather and mail, on account of her small size. Once suited, they gathered in a circle, where Jacaerys joined them. Baela stood as close as she could, so as to overhear. The sun was rising as they discussed their plan of attack.

"Nettles, Addam, Hugh, and Ulf, you will fly north with me. The Triarchy has seen fit to divide its fleet into two pincers, one sailing north of Dragonstone, the other south. Their intent must be to break Lord Velaryon's blockade. Our goal will be to shatter their attack, force their retreat, and deal as much damage as possible to their fleet." Turning to Gaemon and the other dragonseed, he continued: "Gaemon and Maegor, you will fly South, and engage the other pincer. Since you fly the largest and fastest dragons respectively, you should have little trouble destroying the Southern pincer."

Each of the seeds nodded their assent to the plan, and donning their winged helms, walked to their dragons, where they clambered into the saddles with their whips. An attendant scurried up with them, chaining them into their saddles. Jacaerys turned to Baela, an oddly distant and melancholy look in his eyes.

"Cos, when I return, I must needs speak with you. There is something I should have told you before this, but I fear now that it must wait til after this fight. When I return, I promise I will hold no secrets from you any longer." He gave her a kiss on the forehead, before turning to receive a kiss from his mother, who hugged him fiercely. He then began to mount Vermax.

"Jacaerys!" She cried. He turned to regard her. "I will hold you to that! You'll feel my wrath soon enough!" Baela spoke in jest, but her stomach was twisting in knots. _What has Jacaerys been keeping from me?_ Rage began to burn within her. _I wish to know now._ She almost called out to him again, but she knew better than to delay his departure any further. She blinked back tears of frustration as Vermax let loose a roar, echoed by the other dragons. Lifting into the sky the dragons soared in ever higher circles. Baela ran to the battlements to watch them, wishing her own Moondancer was large enough to join them. Her eyes watched the Cannibal and Grey Ghost turn south, before following Vermax as it led the others north. Baela Targaryen was not a religious woman, but she found herself saying a prayer to the Warrior. As they disappeared behind a bank of clouds, Baela whispered: "Be safe, Cos. Bring Fire and Blood to those bastards. But most importantly, _come back_. _"_


	6. The Gullet

**The Gullet**

**Maegor**

Maegor felt the apprehension growing within his chest the further away from Dragonstone's citadel he flew. He occasionally twisted in his saddle to look back in the direction of the island, and caught a final glimpse of the Prince and the other seeds save Gaemon flying in the opposite direction, making for the waters north of Dragonstone. Clad in leather, mail, and plate, Maegor felt very uncomfortable. He was used to wearing loose clothing that would not tangle or weigh him down even after being soaked by spray from the sea, or dry so slowly that he would remain damp long enough to catch a chill. The armor added a significant weight to his movements that he'd never before had, and with every ponderous shift and turn that he made, Maegor felt as though he were one of Dragonstone's gargoyles, covered in vestments of solid and heavy stone.

From what Maegor understood of the Prince's quick description of the situation, the enemy fleet was split into two squadrons, one larger and sailing around the northern side of Dragonstone, while the other sailed around its southern side. With Maegor riding the fastest and most nimble dragon, and Gaemon riding the meanest and largest dragon, they had been chosen to deal with this smaller southern squadron. Maegor caught occasional glimpses of the Cannibal flying behind him with Gaemon perched upon his back through breaks in the clouds, as the sun began to break over the waves. Among the clouds, Maegor could almost convince himself that he was not riding the Grey Ghost into battle, but rather simply accompanying his mount as it searched for fish in the waters surrounding Dragonstone. _Would that it were truly that_. Maegor wanted to look down and see fishing skiffs, not ships of war. On many mornings since his arrival at Dragonstone's citadel, Maegor had watched these small vessels as they rode the waves to claim their morning catch. From so far away, Maegor could pretend that his father and brothers were on one of them, hauling in nets and looking forward to spending the evening at the inn, drinking ale and trading japes with Wat and other patrons.

He had occasionally flown around the island and over the sea atop the Grey Ghost, enjoying the fact that he could simply sit in silence, with nothing but his thoughts and the whistling winds. On dragonback, Maegor didn't have to make awkward conversation with curious servants or courtiers, and arrogant knights who barely veiled their jealousy behind a courteous veneer when asking Maegor about how _he_ managed to tame such a "magnificent creature". He had never been a very talkative person before he'd tamed the Grey Ghost, but after learning of the deaths of his father and brothers, he had begun to shut himself off completely. He did as he was bid, visiting the blacksmith in order to be fitted for armor and choose his preferred weapon (a sword, for Maegor doubted that throwing nets would be as effective against men as they were for fish). Beyond what the Prince had requested, however, Maegor had done little and less during his time in the castle. Gaemon had tried to talk with Maegor when he'd taken his meals, but Maegor had kept their conversations brief, focusing more on his food than whatever words his friend was saying. Maegor just wanted to be left alone, but the gods had seen fit to curse him with endless visitors, fitting him for clothing, bringing him water to bathe in (when Maegor had asked a servant if he might make a trip from the citadel down to the sea to bathe instead, the girl had thought he was japing), or asking when he wished to eat.

When he'd finally acquiesced to Gaemon's attempts to get him to leave his quarters and travel with the other seeds into the village below Dragonstone's citadel for a night of drinking, Maegor had hoped that doing so would win him some peace from his friend's insistent pestering for a while. Mayhaps Maegor had even hoped against hope that he would enjoy himself, and at least for a time chase away the grief that haunted him incessantly. Instead, a seed named Nettles had insulted his deceased father and brothers. In that moment, Maegor had felt an emotion burning within him even stronger than the sadness that had dominated him for weeks. _It was rage. A painful flame that burned within his heart, threatening to consume him and burn away all of his restraint._ However, Nettles had apologized quickly and sincerely, and the flame inside Maegor had started to die. But then Ulf had spoken up, unapologetically insulting Maegor's family and all the other dead who had sought to tame dragons. The rage had come back twice as strong then, and in that moment Maegor had wanted nothing more than to beat the drunkard senseless. Maegor's restraint won out in the end, however, and he kept himself from attacking the drunken seed. The timely arrival of a guard requesting Gaemon's presence had further broken the tension within the inn, and Maegor had taken the opportunity to stalk out into the night, wandering into the dark streets.

He hadn't realized that his path led further down the streets into the village rather than up to the citadel until he found himself standing in front of a darkened two-story structure of crudely-cut stone and old timber. _The almshouse_. Maegor had only been there once since he had fled that night long ago. _He had made the trip as an older lad, several years after he'd returned home from his time on the Dragonmont. Maegor felt he'd owed Septon Bennard an explanation for his disappearance, as well as to thank the man for all that he'd done for him. Though he looked even older than Maegor remembered him as a child, the septon still possessed a quiet strength that showed in his movements. Septon Bennard had wept and embraced Maegor upon seeing him standing outside the almshouse in the street, before bringing Maegor up to his modest quarters on the second floor of the almshouse where they could speak in private. Bennard had confessed to Maegor that despite his prayers to the Father to protect Maegor, his prayers to the Mother for her mercy, and his prayers to the Crone for her to guide Maegor, he had still feared that the worst had happened. Bennard was the only person Maegor told about seeing the Grey Ghost who believed him, and he declared to Maegor that his dreams about the Dragonmont and the Grey Ghost were blessed visions from the Crone herself. Maegor had left the almshouse that day with a feeling of peace and contentment._

Standing in the dark outside the almshouse that night, however, Maegor had only felt indecision and sadness. He had wanted nothing more in that moment than to seek out Bennard and speak with him, but a sudden fear had stayed his hand as he lifted his fist to knock on the door. In that moment, Maegor felt an irrational need to avoid speaking with the Septon about what had happened to his family. _If I don't speak with the Septon, and never return to my family's cottage by the sea, it can be as though they're not really gone. The moment I speak with Bennard however, I'll know them to be dead within my heart, and I will well and truly be alone._ Maegor knew that his thoughts utterly lacked any sense, but he just couldn't bring himself to accept that his family was gone. Hanging his head in grief and shame, Maegor had returned to the citadel.

* * *

The distant sounds of flame crackling and heavy crashes tore Maegor from the thoughts that had been claiming his attention. Maegor's chest tightened at the sight that appeared below him. He could see ships of the Velaryon fleet burning and sinking, and many war galleys sailing swiftly through their wreckage, chasing survivors of the initial skirmish as they limped into the strait between Dragonstone and Driftmark. The galleys of the Triarchy seemed to be making no attempt to peel off towards Dragonstone, and with horror Maegor began to realize why. _They mean to assault Driftmark_. Maegor felt the familiar white-hot rage begin to flow through him. He'd heard stories about the fleets of the Three Daughters, and how they attacked and kidnapped innocents on ships or vulnerable strips of coastline to use as slaves. _They'll do the same with the people of Driftmark, or at least those that they don't butcher_. Unlike Dragonstone, Driftmark had towns of considerable size in several places. _Like Spicetown_. He could see the indistinct shoreline of Driftmark appearing in the distance, and could barely make out the gleaming silver roofs of High Tide's towers. He knew that not far beyond that castle was Spicetown, with its famed wharves reaching out into the Gullet to bring in trade and wealth. _Yet now they'll draw in naught but misery and death_. Steeling his nerves, Maegor descended towards the war galleys of the Triarchy.

Though he was chained to his saddle, Maegor still felt an odd sense of weightlessness as the Grey Ghost descended rapidly from the sky, and Maegor guided the Ghost towards a massive warship that was much larger than any of the others entering the strait. A hail of arrows, crossbow bolts, and scorpion bolts whistled up towards Maegor, but the Ghost was a fast and elusive creature, and weaved between them, with only a scarce few arrows and crossbow bolts bouncing off of his scaled underbelly as the large flagship loomed in ever closer. "NOW!" Maegor screamed, clutching his whip tightly, and the Grey Ghost opened his maw and began to shoot white-hot flame from his gullet. The flames set the deck alight, and began to spread with a hellish ferocity as terrible, guttural screams pierced Maegor's ears. As the Grey Ghost banked and let loose with another jet of pearl-white hellfire, Maegor was taken aback by the heat of the flame that emanated from the fires burning across the upper deck and rigging of the flagship, and watched with horror as burning sailors writhed and convulsed among the flames, some flinging themselves shrieking into the waters of the strait. Maegor's mouth was dry as the Ghost flew towards another war galley, gracefully weaving amongst bolts and arrows. Flame was once again loosed, and another ship burned brightly, the unfortunate sailors on its burning deck twisting and turning as though performing some awful dance to a tune played by the Stranger themself. _Just like my dream,_ thought Maegor.

He had dreamed of a dragon again not long after arriving at Dragonstone's citadel. He hadn't slept well since arriving, and what little sleep he did have was oft plagued with unpleasant dreams, some so nightmarish that he woke up in a cold sweat. But one dream was different than the others. _Maegor once again felt the pleasant and comforting feeling of warmth that began in the tips of his fingers and toes and flowed throughout his body into his heart. He was floating weightlessly in a blackness as dark as any ink, and though he did not fall, neither was he able to move at all. He could hear the sounds of waves far below him, but was unable to see them. In the distance he could barely make out three large indistinct forms. Maegor began to float towards them, unable to control his own movements. His surroundings gradually grew lighter as he flew towards them, and by the time he found himself looking down on them from above, he could see that the shapes were three massive women in silken dresses, all standing silently in a ring up to their knees in a roiling sea of pitch. Their faces seemed similar enough that Maegor took them for kin to each other, but before he could consider them further, he was startled by a loud roar. A dragon rose from the waves of pitch in the center of the ring that the three women had formed, and they began a slow swaying dance around it as it writhed and roared mightily. The dragon shot jets of flame in all directions as it continued to roar, and the clothing of the dancers was set alight. As the flames consumed them, they danced faster and faster. Their faces remained serene and unconcerned, even as the flames turned them into pillars of fire. Their movements grew more erratic as they burned to ash, and as the fires consuming them died out, so did the light illuminating Maegor's surroundings. He was once again left in pitch-blackness, unable to see. A massive roar reverberated through the darkness, rattling Maegor to his core. Maegor sat up on his bed, trembling from an odd mixture of terrible fear and elation._

Maegor wasn't sure what the dream had meant, but he felt that it had to relate in some way to the carnage below him. The fight had been going on for hours. It seemed as though every time Maegor had burned a ship, two more had sailed into the strait to take its place. The waters had become a choked miasma of burning flotsam and corpses, and as Maegor passed low over another ship, he was startled by the appearance of a frightened sailor fleeing the jet of Grey Ghost's flame. His features bore a haunting resemblance to Maegor's own father, and Maegor was so stunned that he banked the Grey Ghost higher up into the sky in a panic, trying to collect his thoughts. _That isn't my father_ , Maegor thought to himself. _But he is likely someone's father, or brother, or son. You selfishly grieve for the loss of your own family while you burn the families of hundreds on dragonback._ Maegor felt an intense guilt wash over him as he continued to circle the Grey Ghost in the sky above the chaos. He saw the Cannibal descend on another ship, setting it alight. Then Maegor remembered the panicked and tear-stained face of Prince Aegon as he arrived on the back of his dying dragon, Stormcloud earlier that morning. _These same men likely killed one prince, while trying to drown another by shooting down his dragon. My father and brothers weren't the murderous rapists and pillagers on these ships below that seek to sack Driftmark and terrorize its people._ With a hardened resolve, Maegor began to guide Grey Ghost back towards the battle below. _In order to protect the lambs of this world, I must burn the wolves._ Maegor didn't notice the tears flowing down his cheeks as he continued his descent.

* * *

**Gaemon**

The smell of burning flesh was powerful, and sickening. Gaemon had not forgotten its smell after he had witnessed Runcifer Sunglass' burning in the Cannibal's cave. A mixture between the savory smells of cooking meat and the acrid odor of burning hair and clothing. Each time the Cannibal swept down to burn the ships below, the smell of smoke and death became nearly overpowering. Gaemon had decided by this point that the opportunity to prove his heritage was not nearly as glorious as he had dreamed it would be. _This isn't even a battle… it is a slaughter._ It had been less than an hour since he and Maegor had departed from Dragonstone, flying south. The sea had been beautiful, its waves reflecting the rising sun. It had not been difficult to find the southern squadron of the Daughters' fleet; they had followed the wakes of its ships as the galleys had approached Driftmark. Their path was marked by the burning hulks of Velaryon ships left to sink, evidently the unlucky remnants of the defensive patrols that had been directed to provide early warning in case of an attack. _The men aboard those ships had no chance,_ Gaemon had thought, _their enemies had approached hidden by the rays of the rising sun. It would have been difficult to spot them, as the Velaryon soldiers would have been forced to stare into the sun_. Luckily Maegor and Gaemon had caught their enemies as they had begun to break battle formation, preparing to land forces on Driftmark. _Any later and they'd have begun to sack Spicetown. Our dragonflame would have been of little use if they'd managed to land their troops_. _We'd have been just as likely to burn Spicetown's smallfolk_. The thought of the slaughter that had been narrowly averted hardened Gaemon's heart to the suffering of the men below him.

Maegor had been the first to reach the fleet; his dragon was terribly quick. It emerged from the low-hanging clouds like grey lightning, burning ships before ascending just as quickly. Chaos had spread immediately, as Maegor and the Grey Ghost had evidently burned the fleet's flagship first. From what Gaemon knew of war fleets, it was common for them to use flags and horns to communicate with one another in the midst of battle. A group of sailors that had visited Wat's old inn had regaled Gaemon with the stories of their battles within the Stepstones, and they had remarked on the importance of communication during battle. Evidently Maegor's crippling of the flagship had been extremely destructive for the sailors below, as many of the ships had broken formation and seemed to be manuerving in patterns that seemed to lack any sort of coherence. This had left them as easy targets for the Cannibal, which had roared mightily when it had finally joined the battle. While the flames of the Grey Ghost were shot in narrow streams of blinding heat, the Cannibal's flame were great gouts of dark green flame that burned with an unnatural glow. It usually only took a single blast to set an entire ship alight. Even when the flames themselves did not connect, the sheer heat often caused the sails and rigging to catch fire. The men on the decks of each ship were transformed into writhing, shrieking torches that quickly threw themselves into the dark waves lapping about the ships.

In the first few moments of the battle, several ships had coordinated their fire in order to try and bring one of the dragons down. Everytime the Cannibal or the Grey Ghost descended, a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts would sail up to meet them. From his seat atop the Cannibal, Gaemon had been mostly protected from these attacks, and could hear them clattering harmlessly off of the Cannibal's nearly impenetrable scales. When his initial fear of being struck had subsided, Gaemon had allowed himself to go away inside, wishing to escape the smells of burning flesh and the screams of the dying. He found himself thinking of the other dragonriders, wondering whether they were safe. _It'd be a particularly tough loss to lose Nettles and that filthy mouth of hers_ , he thought to himself. _Alyn Velaryon would be devastated to lose his elder brother, and the death of Prince Jacaerys would be an awful loss for Lady Baela._ He hadn't any time to truly process his meeting with his half-sister, but he was certainly grateful she'd not decided to not share his claims of parentage with the Queen. _Queen Rhaenyra's wroth this morning had been worthy of the Dragonlords of old,_ he mused. Having finally been able to experience the fury of the Queen, he was doubly grateful for Lady Baela's discretion. He hoped to be able to speak with her more in the future, as he desperately wanted to know anything more she could tell him about his family. _I would imagine she is furious right now, unable to join Prince Jacaerys in his assault._

Lost in his thoughts about the other dragonseeds, Gaemon had been completely shocked when he felt the arrow strike his helm. The force of the hit forced his head back, and only the visor prevented the arrow from striking his face beneath. Forcing himself back into the present, he hunched further into his saddle, leaning into the Cannibal's neck as it burned the ship beneath them. _I am such a fool_ , he thought to himself. In his mind's eye, he could see how he had allowed himself to begin sitting more upright in the saddle, presenting a much greater target for the men below. _Faced with overwhelming odds, they still fight to win… and one just scored a hit that was closer to turning the tide_. He knew it was his duty to win this battle, not just to the Queen, but to the people of Driftmark. _How many of the people below have lived lives just as my mother, or my grandparents have? How many young men and women below would have been destined for the pillow houses had Maegor and I not arrived when we did?_ The thought of such things disgusted Gaemon, and he resolved to finish what had been started. _I must needs keep burning til the screaming stops_ , he thought with a grimace.

* * *

By mid morning, the ordeal was over. Gaemon estimated that out of the forty ships they had caught, perhaps four or five had managed to navigate their way out of the conflagration and make their way back from whence they came. He had been eager to bring Fire and Blood to the enemy a few hours before, but now he found himself exhausted and feeling sick inside. _All I have done was to save lives. Those I took today were worth taking if it meant that Driftmark could be spared_. No matter how many times he repeated those words to himself, they still seemed to ring hollow. Circling the smoldering ruins of the fleet, he had flown the Cannibal towards the Grey Ghost, signalling to Maegor that they ought to land in order to confer with the garrison.

As they descended in circles towards the beach, a crowd gathered, keeping its distance, but cheering nonetheless. When the Cannibal landed, Gaemon took a few moments to undo his saddle chains, before dismounting and removing his helm. It felt good to breathe without his helm restricting him. On the beach, the smell of death was less pervasive than it had been out to sea. Maegor dismounted the Grey Ghost and similarly removed his helm. Gaemon wished to offer some words of encouragement to his friend, but could find none. Instead, they shared a moment of silence before sharing a nod and turning to the crowd, where several soldiers dressed in tabards sporting the colors of House Velaryon had gathered. The lead soldier, an older man, grim and scarred, stepped forward and knelt.

"Seven blessings, masters. We'd have never been able to repulse the fleet had you not intercepted it. They'd have caught the majority of our fleet at anchor. I have no doubts concerning Spicetown's fate had they been able to land. Driftmark is in your debt."

Gaemon nodded. "We are glad to have prevented them from visiting such woe upon your island. We landed in order to see whether the island was secure before returning to Dragonstone."

The soldier spit into the sand. "A few of the buggers have been washing ashore, but they were nothing we couldn't handle. We gave them the sort of welcome we imagine they'd have given us if they'd taken the city." He turned to regard the stretch of beach behind him, where Velaryon soldiers patrolled, executing the survivors who washed ashore. Gaemon had to suppress a scowl as a group of Lyseni sailors waded ashore, hands raised above their heads, evidently begging for mercy. The Velaryon soldiers wasted no time in putting their spears through the chests of the Lyseni, leaving their bodies to be gently buffeted on the shore by the waves. The waves crashed ashore blue, and receded a dark crimson. Turning back to face Gaemon once more, the soldier cleared his throat. "There is one matter the two of you will need to address. Forgive me for not saying more, masters, but methinks you ought to see this for yourselves."

Gaemon and Maegor followed the party of soldiers down the beach, before being led to a crowd that had formed in a ring around something. Hushed voices whispered in awe around whatever was at its center. The soldiers harshly cleared a path through the crowd, before reaching the center. In the center of the ring, a small boy sat, dressed in ragged, salt stained clothing, clutching a blanket about his shoulders. He looked up as the two dragonriders entered the circle, revealing pale hair that poked out from under his cap, and deep purple eyes that harbored dark rings beneath them. He shivered, looking exhausted from whatever ordeals he had just survived. What shocked Gaemon the most however was what lay curled in the boy's lap. Staring up at Gaemon was the tiny, yet fierce face of a dragon hatchling. The boy ran a hand along the hatchling's spiney neck, as it hissed at the crowd around it. Its scales along its neck and back were orange-red, with its stomach having scales of yellowish-orange. Its eyes were akin to red coals. The boy smiled wanly. "It hatched from its egg after I had swum to the shore." Looking down at the hatchling, then back to Gaemon, the Prince whispered: "I think I would like to return home now."

Gaemon had initially been unsure whether it would be safe to carry Viserys and his hatchling atop the Cannibal, so he'd approached his dragon with caution, keeping his dragon whip at the ready. When he had led Viserys and the hatchling closer, the Cannibal had hissed, baring its jet black fangs at their approach. Raising his whip, he cracked it over the dragon's head, which earned him a chilling stare. Eventually, the Cannibal lowered its head, and while not looking particularly enthused, allowed him to help Viserys and his hatchling into the saddle. He then climbed in himself, taking care to chain both himself and the Prince in safely. The hatchling hissed as the Cannibal rose, spreading its great black leathery wings, before beating them powerfully and lifting off from the beach. Behind them, the Grey Ghost also rose into the air. As they flew back, tracing their route from earlier, neither Viserys nor Gaemon spoke. As Dragonstone became visible in the distance, Gaemon realized that the Prince had fallen asleep. His small form had hunched forward, still clutching his hatchling firmly. _The poor child is probably exhausted_ , Gaemon thought to himself. _I'm not sure even the Crone herself would know how he escaped the men of the Three Daughters._ Gaemon had tried to imagine how a boy that young could navigate a burning ship full of dying men well enough to find his dragon egg and manage to escape overboard. _It is almost miraculous. Either way, the Prince is an amazing child._ He realized as he glanced down at the sleeping child that the boy was his half brother, which came as quite a shock. Having never had any siblings, he found himself grateful that of all the horror this war had brought, it had also given him a family. He had to desperately resist the urge to embrace the boy. _Even if this is my half brother, that would not be proper._

As the Cannibal reached the shores of Dragonstone, it let out a shattering roar, announcing its presence. Viserys jumped awake, and Gaemon put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. The Grey Ghost responded with a roar of its own as they soared over the shepherd's fields that enclosed much of the Dragonmont's foothills, before finally reaching the citadel itself. The two dragons arced in a circle about the citadel, gradually descending into the courtyard. After they had landed, Gaemon realized with some surprise that there were very few people in the courtyard. He hadn't necessarily expected an official welcome, but it was odd that there were hardly any people to be seen in the courtyard. Undoing his saddle chains, he dismounted, before helping the Prince to climb down, his hatchling now curled about his shoulders. As Maegor dismounted, he gave Gaemon a look as if to ask: _where is everyone?_ Gaemon shrugged, starting to feel concerned. Normally, he had never had access to the Stone Drum, but given the circumstances, he decided to walk Prince Viserys inside to find his mother. He was about to start walking when he felt a slight tug on his arm. He turned to face Viserys looking at him, concerned, holding his hand. He gave the Prince his most reassuring smile, and took his hand as they climbed the steps into the Stone Drum.

Even after entering the tower, there were few servants or guards to be seen. Those they did pass bore looks of grief upon their faces. An older guard, upon seeing Viserys, directed them to the Great Hall, where they passed through great red doors that were set within the maw of a great stone dragon. Passing below its teeth, they entered the hall and immediately were greeted with the sounds of crying. Upon the dais, Queen Rhaenyra was hunched, sobbing, holding Prince Aegon tightly. Gathered about the throne stood several lords that Gaemon recognized vaguely, along with Ser Marbrand and Lady Baela, whose own face was darkened with rage, and puffy from tears. Standing further from the throne were Hugh, Ulf, Nettles, and Addam Velaryon. Each of their faces were grim. Nettles' smoke-stained face was stained where tears had traced their way through the ash. As Gaemon and Maegor entered the hall, faces one by one began to turn to regard them, their expressions changing from grief to shock. Ser Marbrand leaned down and whispered something in the Queen's ear, and she slowly rose, before her eyes widened and she rushed from the throne to where Viserys stood, holding Prince Aegon's hand the entire way. Gathering her two youngest sons in her arms, she cried tears of joy.

"I thought the gods, in their infinite cruelty, had robbed me of two sons today." The Queen choked. Wiping the tears from her face, Rhaenyra looked up at the two dragonseeds standing before her. "You have my deepest thanks for returning my son to me. I feared I would never see him again. Instead, you return him to me, along with a dragon hatchling. I would be a fool to not reward such leal service. I only wish Jace was here to see his men succeed so."

Gaemon found himself at a loss for words. The Prince's death came as a terrible shock. _Without Prince Jacaerys, I'd have never had this opportunity._ He clenched his fist. _I swear that I will place your mother upon the Iron Throne, my Prince._ He was so focused on how to respond to the Queen he was almost knocked off his feet when Baela crashed into him.

Hugging him through his armor tightly, Baela smiled fiercely through her tears. "I too wish that Jacaerys could have seen you return his baby brother safely." Standing on her toes, she leaned closer to whisper in Gaemon's ear: "Thank you for saving my brother… brother." At that point Gaemon couldn't help but return her embrace.


	7. Gyles I

**Gyles I**

Gyles Yronwood swatted a fly crawling across the back of his neck. He watched as a stout woman in brown roughspun clothing dropped a bucket tied to a length of rope into a well, before drawing it back up with a look of exertion evident on her face, even given the distance between her and Gyles. Pouring the water from the bucket into a crude clay jar, she picked the jar up and began walking the short distance back to the village from the well on its outskirts.

"What'll it be, m'lord?" Mors asked him. This wasn't the first time that the grizzled squire had asked Gyles that question. Given the significant amount of bad blood shared between the Dornish and the Stormlanders, Gyles knew that it was more than a valid question to ask.

Gyles and his squire had been keeping off of the main roads and taking side paths and tracks through the wide plains north of the Boneway, doing their best to avoid being seen by any scouts that frequently roved along the marches, searching for the ever-present threat of a Dornish raiding party. Though he was no raider, Gyles was fairly confident that the Stormlanders would sooner kill him than listen to any explanation that he could give for why he had entered their lands. Gyles' own grandsire had been killed in Prince Morion Martell's failed invasion of the Stormlands, burning to death as the fires of House Targaryen's dragons immolated the ship that he was aboard. Gyles hoped that the Seven had a kinder fate in store for him. Gyles' journey with Mors across the plains in the southern Stormlands had been a tense one, but they had thankfully only been spotted and chased but once by scouts bearing badges with the forked lightning of House Dondarrion not long after exiting the Boneway. Gyles had wounded one of the scouts with an arrow from his recurved bow, which slowed the other scouts down as they checked on their comrade. That had given Gyles and Mors enough time to ride further into the plains as night fell, losing the scouts.

As plains turned into forests, Gyles had found it much easier to avoid unwanted attention, using his bow to catch animals for he and Mors to skin, cook, and eat. They drank water and refilled their waterskins from the occasional stream. But Gyles had still not answered his squire's question.

"I suppose we should ride into the village and see how they react. I tire of sleeping on the forest floor, and we desperately need more information about this war between dragons."

Mors nodded with an affirmative grunt, and spit out the gob of sourleaf that he had been chewing on all morning. Walking back into the forest from its edge where they had spent some time surveying the village, Gyles tore a clump of grass from the forest floor, and made his way over to the tree where he'd tied up his sand steed, Evenfall. The magnificent horse was a dark gold color, with a burnished bronze mane, which to Gyles' eyes gave it the look of a sunset. Stroking its mane, he fed it the grass, then set about untying it from the tree. Mors was doing the same with his spotted rounsey. For a brief moment, Gyles considered removing his sand-colored silk doublet with the black portcullis sigil of his house, before deciding against it. _The armor I wear is enough to set me apart from any knight north of Dorne, even in the eyes of the smallfolk._

His armor was crafted in a way that was different from the heavy plate common to knights throughout the rest of Westeros. They prided themselves on suits of shiny and heavy plate that dazzled the eye, and provided significant protection from most kinds of weaponry. Dornish armor was also crafted to protect and impress, but as the knights of the Reach had learned in the First Dornish War, heavy plate proved a curse when navigating the deep deserts of Dorne under a relentless sun. It was for this reason that Dornish armor was built with greater mobility and a lighter weight in mind. Gyles' own armor had burnished copper worked into the pauldrons, as well as bordering his breastplate, greaves, and vambraces. His visored helm was fashioned in a conical shape, with a sand-colored silk scarf wrapped tightly around its top to help stave off the heat of the sun. For the time being, however, Gyles left his helm within his saddlebag. His recurved bow was also unstrung and stored safely within its leather case that was secured alongside his saddle bag on Evenfall. Hoping for the best, Gyles rode out from the forest, crossing a small field of recently-hewn wheat before reaching the dirt track that led directly into the village.

It did not take long for the villagers to observe Gyles and Mors approaching their homes. By the time he had reached the village center, several stooped old men in rusty scraps of armor and young boys had gathered to halt his approach. A few carried equally tarnished and rusty dirks and swords, while most simply clutched hoes, scythes, and large sticks. A large-bellied man in a stained apron with a wooden right foot had leveled a crossbow at him. Hobbling forward, the man with the crossbow was the first to speak.

"That's close enough. My eyes may be getting old, but I still know a Dornishman whens I sees one. We'll suffer no raiding here."

Gyles lifted one hand from Evenfall's reins, palm spread wide in what he hoped was a placating enough gesture.

"Peace, good man. I am Ser Gyles Yronwood. My squire and I visit in peace. We simply request some food, rooms to spend the night in, and information. We have the coin to prove it."

The crossbowman's mouth had twisted into a deeper frown as Gyles spoke. "Forgive me for saying so, Ser, but when Dornishmen have come to visit our homes, it's never been for food and polite conversation. Raiders out of the Boneway is the reason I got a foot o' wood."

Gyles considered his next words carefully. He certainly hadn't spent such a significant amount of time avoiding roads and hostile scouting parties to just get a crossbow bolt through the throat. Looking beyond the assembled menfolk of the village to a large two-story stone and timber structure, Gyles nodded in its direction."Is that an inn?"

The crossbowman nodded warily, still pointing his weapon at Gyles' face. "Yes Ser. Tis the _Bent Buckle_. Been in my family for generations." He then transfixed Gyles with an accusatory glare. "Theres I go running my mouth again. What's that inn to you?"

Gyles looked back to the innkeeper with the wooden foot. "In Dorne, we hold to the custom of Guest Right just as seriously as anywhere else in Westeros. Allow me some of your bread and salt, to prove the truth of my words." The innkeeper and the other men and boys stood still, their faces rife with expressions of indecision. _No matter where you are in Westeros, one does not take a request for Guest Right lightly, lest they fear the wrath of the Gods._

The innkeeper finally lowered his crossbow, with a less hostile expression gracing his features. Seeming to follow his lead, the other men and boys lowered their weapons as well. "Fine then," grunted the innkeep. "Come into the inn with your squire while my boys tie up your horses. I'll bring ya the bread and salt." Smiling his most charming smile, Gyles nodded his assent. _My silver tongue wins the day again_.

After he and Mors had eaten of the bread and salt, thereby observing Guest Right, the tense atmosphere had lessened considerably. While Mors and Gyles awaited more food, many of the villagers came into the common room to gawk at them. Their eyes seemed particularly transfixed on Gyles, and the armor that he wore. _This is likely the first time they've ever seen a Dornishman up close_ , Gyles mused to himself. _From the stories of us they were told as children, they're likely surprised that I don't have horns and breathe fire._ The innkeep (named Dickon, like his father before him) brought Gyles and Mors some rabbit stew from the kitchens, along with more freshly baked brown bread and ale. At Gyles' request, Dickon and many of the villagers joined him and Mors at the long trestle table in the common room with their own bowls of stew and tankards of ale. Gyles began the evening by answering the many questions about himself and his home that they had (yes, the Dornishmen worshipped the Seven, no, they did not drink the blood of their enemies, yes, the sun was much hotter in Dorne, and so on). After Gyles felt that he had sufficiently spent time sating the curiosity of the village folk, he began asking questions of his own.

Though he could tell that much of the news and information he was being given was prone to embellishment by the excitable villagers, as night fell Gyles felt that he knew much more of the situation north of Dorne than he had since riding out of the Boneway. Apparently, the realm of the dragonlords was bitterly divided between support for the eldest child of the old king, a daughter, and the children of the old king's second wife, which included several sons. It seemed that none could agree whether an older daughter should inherit over a younger son, and the realm of the dragon was bleeding for it. Gyles could only grin to himself. _In Dorne, such a question is much more easily resolved. If you're the eldest child of the Lord or Lady, it doesn't matter what you have between your legs, you're the heir._ This type of succession was a custom brought by Nymeria and her Rhoynar to Dorne, and had not spread beyond the passes of the Red Mountains.

Though all Houses in Dorne were expected to follow this tradition without complaint, some of them, such as Gyles' own family the Yronwoods, were of much older blood and tradition in Dorne than the Rhoynar. It was not uncommon for older daughters of these Houses to be married off and disinherited so that younger sons could inherit. This was not always the rule, however. Gyles' own distant cousin, the current Lord Yronwood, had two daughters and several younger sons. However, he fully intended for his eldest daughter to inherit after him. Considering the war of succession being fought between the Targaryen family, Gyles shook his head. _What a mess. But, mayhaps in all this chaos and upheaval, there is a chance for even a hated Dornishman like myself to rise high._ Gyles certainly couldn't return home, not after what had happened at the wedding of Lord Alaric Yronwood's younger daughter to the heir to Wyl. The vengeful one-armed Lord Wyland Wyl would see to that.

As the night grew late, many of the villagers began to drift back home to their huts, and Gyles prepared to retire to his quarters for the evening. As he made to do so, he made eye contact with a pretty girl that had caught his attention the moment she'd entered the inn. He raised one eyebrow at her, then winked at her before giving his best grin. She giggled quietly, then looked in the direction of the stairs leading to the inn's second floor, before looking back at Gyles with an inquisitive grin of her own. Gyles simply nodded with a smile, and his smile widened as he watched her climb the steps before he'd reached them. _This evening gets better and better._ Wasting no further time, he climbed the steps quickly.

* * *

The tallow candle within his room was burning low, and by Gyles' estimation it must have been very close to the hour of the wolf. The cot that he currently shared with the village girl was barely large enough for the both of them, and the straw mattress made his back itch. Nevertheless, Gyles was more than content. Feeling the girl laying beside him shift to face him, he turned to meet her gaze.

With a soft smile, she began to whisper. "I've heard the tales that the merchants bring to our village about the Dornish and their _paramours_. Prithee, m'lord, take me with you when you leave. I'll cook your meals, clean your clothes, and…" her face took on a bright red color, and she bit her lip. "I'll gladly warm your bed every night. But please, take me with you. Nothing ever happens in this village, and with Lord Buckler taking all the able men of marrying age to fight in the war, I won't have _anyone_." She fell silent, watching Gyles' face with a pleading expression.

Gyles wanted to grimace, but he carefully kept as neutral an expression on his face that he could, as the flickering candlelight threw long shadows throughout the darkened room. _Seven hells. Tread carefully here. You don't need any more potential problems than you've already got._ Smiling warmly at the girl, he collected his thoughts. "My lady," Gyles began, taking note of how the girl smiled at the honorific, "my squire and I ride off to this war ourselves. As an anointed knight, I cannot in good conscience expose you to the dangers this will entail. However, you have my word that you will be the first person I seek out should my travels return me to this village."

He could tell by the way her smile fell slightly that it was not the answer she wanted, but all the same she seemed to accept it. A smile did return to her face, but it was much more mischievous than any she had given Gyles before. "Well then m'lord," she said, blushing, "I s'pose I'll just have to ensure that you remember me during your travels." Gyles grinned back at her. _I won't be getting much sleep tonight._

* * *

Daisy, the girl that Gyles had shared the previous night with, was no liar. _I will certainly never forget her_. Gyles grinned, feeling more pleased than any other time since he'd left his home. He and Mors had set out early, thanking Dickon for the food, beds, and information that he'd provided them. Gyles had paid him handsomely, and assured Dickon that the silver Spears and copper Shields he'd given him were the same weight and worth as silver Stags and copper Stars. The Martells were a proud ruling family, and ensured that their own currency carried just as much value as the minted coins of the dragon kings. A golden Dragon or a golden Sun, both coins had the same weight. Gyles had also paid Dickon for extra provisions that he and Mors could carry along with them, so they wouldn't have to spend time hunting for their dinner as before.

With directions from Dickon, Gyles and his squire were making for the large thoroughfare known as the Kingsroad. If they followed the directions correctly, Gyles was informed that they would reach the road a short distance north of the castle of Bronzegate, the seat of House Buckler and the overlords of the village that Gyles and Mors had spent the night in. Once they reached the Kingsroad, Gyles hoped to make his way to the city of King's Landing. _If I'm to swear my sword during these trying times, I might as well aim as high as possible._ Given that they had nearly reached the furthest northern bounds of the Stormlands, and the news that Lord Borros Baratheon was gathering his levies at Storm's End, Gyles was less apprehensive about himself and Mors taking the main roads, and was now more focused on making good time than moving slowly with caution. His squire hadn't protested the change of tactic, and rode behind Gyles along the dusty dirt trail that led through the forests north of the village towards the Kingsroad.

As he rode through the forest, watching the early morning light sift between the branches and foliage of the forest surrounding him, Gyles' thoughts began to wander, and he thought of home. _As the only living child of the steward of Yronwood castle, who was himself the cousin of Lord Alaric Yronwood, Gyles had been afforded an education and training as fine as that of any lord's son, training from a young age in arms and riding with the castle's master-at-arms, and receiving tutelage under the castle's maester along with the children of the lord, his cousins, who were largely of an age with Gyles. Gyles spent much of his free time with his own father, accompanying him as he performed his duties as the castle's steward. Gyles had shown a natural talent with his numbers, sums, and organizational skills, which had given Gyles' father hope that his son would one day succeed him as the steward of Yronwood. From the beginning, however, Gyles' true passion was archery, and it had not taken him long to begin winning every archery tournament hosted by the lords of the Red Mountains. Though he was skilled with both the longbow and recurved bow, Gyles greatly preferred the latter. On his eighteenth nameday, Gyles had been granted his knighthood by Lord Alaric, and Gyles' own father had given him an exquisite gift: a recurved bow crafted from Goldenheart wood of the Summer Isles._

If he was being honest with himself, Gyles largely didn't regret the circumstances that led to his exile. He did regret the pain that it brought to his father and mother, however. _I'm their only living child, and it is likely that they'll never see me again_. That was something that Gyles felt a great deal of guilt over, and likely would for the rest of his days. In the span of a single wedding, Gyles had gone from a life of ease as the future steward of Yronwood castle and celebrated archer, to a life running from the wrath of House Wyl, flinging himself into lands where he was likely to be executed simply for being born on the wrong side of the Boneway.

 _No woman is worth all this trouble_ , thought Gyles, but his exile had in part begun by the time he'd spent with one. _Her name is Jennelyn_. The exceedingly lovely daughter of Castle Wyl's captain of the guards, Gyles had been smitten with her the moment he'd seen her. Lord Alaric had brought much of his household with him to Castle Wyl to celebrate the marriage of his younger daughter to the son and heir of one-armed Lord Wyland Wyl. Gyles and his parents had been part of this group of visitors. The wedding itself had gone perfectly, and the feast afterwards as well. It was during the feast that Gyles had sought out Jennelyn, and she had enthusiastically accepted his offer to, as he had put it, "have a bedding of their own."

It was not until the next day that Gyles had learned that Jennelyn was the paramour of Lord Wyland's youngest son, a man who had taken great offense to Gyles spending the night with the fair Jennelyn. Heated words at the farewell feast had dissolved into a fight, started by Lord Wyland's youngest son, who had been deep in his cups. Gyles, who had also been in his cups, had been taken off guard, and found himself receiving a savage beating. Desperately trying to get free of the enraged man seemingly trying to beat him to death, Gyles had grabbed the first object that his scrabbling hands could find, and slammed it into his assailant's face, hoping to stun the man. Unfortunately, that object was a knife, and Lord Wyland's youngest son died the moment Gyles shoved the blade through his eye.

Though Lord Wyland had wanted Gyles thrown into the viper pits his family was known for keeping, Lord Alaric and Lord Wyland's own septon had reminded the enraged man that his own son had started the fight and broken the sanctity of Guest Right, while Gyles had been merely defending himself. Lord Wyl was implacable in his wroth however, and it was eventually decided that Gyles must needs leave Dorne as his punishment, never to return. Gyles had wanted to protest the unfairness of the verdict, but he was only a steward's son, distantly related to the main line of House Yronwood, while Lord Wyland had much greater status than he. In the end, Gyles had bid goodbye to his devastated parents, and continued north along the Boneway from Castle Wyl, along with a grizzled squire from Lord Alaric's retinue named Mors who had volunteered to accompany him and do his best to keep him safe. _And to share in whatever successes I may have in the realm of dragons_. Regardless of the old squire's true motivations, he had been loyal and helpful throughout the journey, and Gyles was grateful to him.

Gyles' attention returned to the path ahead of him as it began to widen, the trees around it becoming further and further apart in distance. Eventually, Gyles and Mors rode through a small field of tall grass up to a wide and dusty road flanked by massive and ancient trees that had stood long before the dragonlords had conquered all the lands of Westeros, save Dorne. Deciding that some caution was still necessary, Gyles fed Evenfall some grass from the roadside, then retrieved his helm from his saddle bag and secured it in place with Mors' help. He also took time to string his goldenheart recurved bow, and ensure that he could easily access his quiver of arrows from where they were attached to Evenfall's saddle. Turning to Mors, he nodded in the squire's direction as he climbed back atop Evenfall. "Onward to King's Landing," he said, and the squire merely nodded, adjusting his halfhelm atop his head, and pushing another piece of sourleaf into his mouth.

* * *

Of all the ways he'd envisioned the capital of the dragon kings' realm, Gyles hadn't expected the smell of shit to be _this_ strong. It had taken him and Mors a further relatively uneventful two days of riding along the Kingsroad to reach the Blackwater rush, and another half of a day to secure passage across the river on a barge to reach the southern wall of the city. It had taken Gyles and Mors some time to gain access through the city's River Gate. From what Gyles could overhear as the gold-cloaked city guards conversed amongst themselves, they were under very strict orders to closely monitor each person entering the city, and as a Dornish knight, Gyles was sufficiently conspicuous as to arouse suspicion. Gyles had a feeling that something had happened to make the gate guards so distrustful of all new visitors, but he had no idea exactly what that was.

As he'd waited with Mors near the massive gate, he'd looked to the giant black banner flapping in the wind above it. _A golden dragon?_ Gyles had thought. _I thought it was red_. Not long after, however, the guardsmen had decided to ask what his business in the city was. Gyles had told them that as a nobleman and anointed knight, he planned on swearing his sword to the royal family. The guards had laughed uproariously at that.

Wiping tears from his eyes, their serjeant had shaken his head in disbelief. "A bloody Dornishman serving the King? _Right_. I would get to fuck the Queen Dowager before a Dornishman is allowed into the royal retinue!"

Scowling, Gyles had asked if he had their permission to enter the city, and the still-laughing serjeant had merely waved a dismissive hand at Gyles and Mors, waving them through the gate. At Mors' suggestion, they had stopped at one of the inns just beyond the River Gate, where many sailors and merchants whose ships were at port in the city stayed. "Them's the ones with the most information to be found, and only for the price of a tankard or two of cheap ale," the squire had said, and Gyles had agreed with the man's sage advice.

Entering an inn known as "The Merry Shipwright", Gyles and Mors found seats in the corner of the foul-smelling structure, ordering tankards of ale from a sour-mouthed serving wench who ducked and dodged between lascivious stares and groping hands as she went to retrieve their drinks. They spent several minutes sipping ale that tasted like piss, watching for any people that piqued their interest. Mors eventually pointed out a man with the look of a mildly successful merchant, which meant that he looked only slightly cleaner and better-dressed than the majority of the people filling the cramped space.

Making their way over to the man, Gyles and Mors sat at the table that the man had originally kept to himself. Watching them with suspicious and beady eyes from within a sallow and corpulent face, the merchant eventually broke the silence.

"Whaddya want? I'm a busy man, and I don't got time for Flea Bottom scum." The man then took a closer look at Gyles through the haze filling the common room, or rather the quality of the armor that he was wearing, and a more calculating gleam appeared in his eyes. A greasy grin spread across the man's face, exposing crooked and mossy teeth that were as brown as mud. "Apologies, Ser. Clearly you are a cut above the filth that usually infests this establishment. How can I help you today?"

Gyles gave the man his charming smile, and waved the sour-mouthed wench over to the table. "Pardon me, miss," Gyles said, before nodding in the direction of the merchant, "but please get this man whatever drink he would like. I'll pay." During the exchange, the merchant's disgusting grin had grown even wider. Gyles allowed the merchant to enjoy several sips of the cheap wine that he'd ordered before speaking up. "My squire and I arrived in the city only just today. Our journey has been a long one, and I fear that I know little and less of the state of this city."

The merchant nodded thoughtfully, smacking his lips as he took a long swig from his wine. "I took you for a Dornishman the moment I truly got a look at that armor of yours. A nobleman too. I see sailors and merchants out of the Planky Town from time to time, but I've never seen a nobleman from Dorne in this land of dragons."

Gyles grinned. "I would say that Dornish knights are not oft a welcome sight within the dragonlords' realm. Were my circumstances different, I would wager that it would be much more beneficial to my continued health and prosperity if I had stayed in my home. Alas, I find myself in a strange city far from the land where I was born, and I now turn to you, a man of clear knowledge and ability, to help me understand how the city of King's Landing fares." Gyles took another swig of his ale, suppressing a grimace. _I was mistaken. Piss would likely taste better than this._

The merchant chuckled, wagging a sausage-like finger at Gyles. "I'm not such a fool to fall for such clear flattery. But you bought me a drink, and offered me those flowery compliments all the same. I'd say that earns you some information." Taking another long sip of wine, the merchant continued. "The city has been in a tense state since the King's eldest son and heir, the prince Jaehaerys, was murdered. From what I've heard, the boy was beheaded right in front o' his siblings and mother. A nasty business, that. They caught one of the murderers, but t'other, a ratcatcher, slipped through their fingers. King Aegon in his wroth had every ratcatcher in the city hanged." The merchant paused to take another swig of wine. "Not too long ago, there was a fight north of the city, at the seat o' Lord Staunton. Twas the King and his brother against a princess on the side of Queen Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys. The three fought on dragonback, and the King and his brother emerged victorious, killing the princess and her dragon. I saw its head myself when it was drawn by cart through the streets of this very city. From what I hear, however, both the King and his dragon were hurt quite badly during the fight. Lots o' folk tried to leave the city following the battle, but the Queen Dowager barred the city gates for a time. Bad for trade, that, but I suppose I would have done the same if I were some royal on Aegon's High Hill." The merchant then shrugged. "That's about all that I know. Many thanks for the drink, friend."

Gyles merely nodded, trying to process all that he had just been told. _Murder and dragonflame. I'm no maester, but that seems quite a dangerous mix to me._ Dragons were fearsome creatures, and Gyles' forebears had stood no chance against them, instead fleeing from their seats until the danger passed. _The only time I've heard of a dragon dying in battle was when those crazy Ullers shot down one of the old Aegon's sister-wives on her dragon. This war will be like none that Westeros has ever seen if dragons fight dragons in the skies._ Leaving the merchant with enough coin to pay for his drink, along with a little extra for the useful information that he gave, Gyles made his way to the door of the inn. Mors drained the remainder of his tankard of ale before following.

* * *

Working as a hired sword for a brothel was not Gyles' first choice for employment, but he supposed that it would have to do for the time being. Atop Visenya's Hill, the House of Kisses was not located along the Street of Silk like many of the city's brothels, but as Gyles had quickly learned, the higher one traveled up any of the three hills, the higher the quality of the businesses and homes became, including the brothels. With their skill at arms, Gyles and Mors were both able to secure a place among the guards at one of the most prestigious brothels in the city. The job provided a bed to sleep in inside of a small room in which to secure his belongings, as well as meals and wine that tasted half-decent. In exchange for the food and lodgings, however, Gyles was paid no coin, and much to his chagrin, the services of the women in the House of Kisses were not free to the brothel's guards. In order to save the coin he had left, Gyles had to be content with nothing more than flirting with them.

When he wasn't working, it had become Gyles' custom to ride out into the city and seek information and rumors about the goings-on within the King's court. Gyles and Mors had been rebuffed at the gates of the Red Keep not long after they'd arrived at the city, and ever since then Gyles sought opportunities to access the court of the royal family. So far, however, he had been unsuccessful. Gyles sat in the common room of the House of Kisses, frustratedly nursing a bottle of wine between himself and Mors on one of the nights they had off. _Unless the situation within this city changes significantly, it is likely that I'll never step inside that damn castle_. Business was slow that evening, and Gyles' dark mood improved slightly as he observed two of the brothel's whores approaching the table that he and Mors sat at.

Both of them drew out the remaining chairs around the small table, seating themselves. Gyles spent a moment silently observing both. The first of the two had pale white skin, with a light splash of freckles on her shoulders and across her face. She had long light brown hair, along with sparkling green eyes and a sweet smile. Like all the whores at the House of Kisses, she wore a sheer silk dress that hid little and less of her curvaceous body from the eye. Her dress was green, matching her eyes. Reaching down, she lifted a small boy onto her knee. By the freckles on the boy's face, Gyles could tell that the boy was the child of the whore in green. However, he had bright eyes of lilac, and pale white-gold hair. The other whore had olive skin, with thick raven hair drawn into a braid. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and gleamed with a calculating intelligence. She smiled at Gyles with white teeth, but the smile was sharp as a dagger. Wearing a sheer silk dress of deep purple, hers was a more slender beauty than that of the whore next to her.

The woman in purple spoke first, in a lilting tone that was common to the people of Dorne living along the region's coasts, having the most Rhoynish ancestry of any of Dorne's peoples. "You might be the very first Dornishman I've seen to make it this far north of the Red Mountains. It's good to see that I'll finally have someone who'll fully appreciate my wit." The woman held out a delicate, sun-kissed hand. "My name is Sylvenna Sand. Now what is your name, Ser Yronwood?" She grinned, clearly awaiting a response.

Gyles smiled back, pleased that for once he didn't have to explain what House the sigil on his doublet belonged to. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Sylvenna. As you correctly surmised, I am Ser Gyles of House Yronwood. Your surname indicates that you have some noble blood in your veins as well. May I ask what House you hail from?" He sipped his wine as the woman responded.

"My father was a Dalt, and the previous Knight of Lemonwood. I was born to a whore in the Planky Town, but my father took me to be raised at Lemonwood. Upon his death, however, his son and heir made it clear to me that I was no longer welcome, so I took passage on a ship out of the Planky Town and made my way to this city. I have resided in the House of Kisses ever since." Gyles nodded. _It seems we're both far from a home that we're no longer welcome in._

Gyles nodded in respect at Sylvenna Sand before speaking again. "Well it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady." Turning to the woman with the child on her knee, he addressed her next. "And your name is?"

Smiling brightly at him, the woman responded in a cheery tone. "My name is Esselyn, m'lord, but everybody knows me as Essie." Patting the head of the boy on her knee affectionately, she continued to speak. "This here is my son Gaemon. He's been blessed with the look of the dragon. If not for Sylvenna having recognized your sigil, I would have taken you for having dragonblood as well!" The young boy had begun to suck his thumb, and looked around the common room in several different directions, seemingly becoming bored.

Gyles smiled kindly at her. "An easy mistake to make, miss. However, my family is known for their blond hair, and I inherited my eyes from my mother." Gyles' mother was born a Dayne of High Hermitage, and like many of her family, she had eyes of a deep violet color. Like her, Gyles' own eyes were a deep violet, and in his own opinion were one of his best features.

Sylvenna Sand politely cleared her throat, and Gyles turned back to face her. Steepling her fingers under her chin, she addressed Gyles once again. "If I may be so bold, Ser, what is your purpose in this city? I am sure you know as well as I that the Dornish are not well-loved beyond the Red Mountains, and I'm willing to wager that whatever journey you made to reach this city was fraught with risk." Gyles had refilled his cup with wine as she spoke, and took another small sip.

Considering her question a moment, Gyles spoke up. "It is my hope to join the court of the royal family, and swear my sword to them. However, I have had no luck in even gaining access to the keep. Mistrust seems to run deep in every part of this city." He sat back, feeling some of his earlier frustration return as he considered just how impossible his situation felt. _I can't return home, and despite my family name, status as a knight, and skill at arms, the region of my birth prevents me from being seen as anything but an enemy in the eyes of most people in this damned city._

Looking back at Sylvenna Sand, Gyles saw that she had a small smile on her face. She stood from her seat, and Essie followed her lead, gathering her young son in her arms before standing as well. Walking to Gyles' side, Sylvenna Sand embraced him. To any throughout the room, it appeared as though she was merely showing a potential client some affection, but the Dornishwoman used the embrace as an opportunity to whisper a quiet message in his ear. _"Take heart, Ser Gyles Yronwood,"_ she whispered lightly. _"In these trying times, it would be easier to predict which way the wind will blow than to guess at who will rule the realm by the war's end."_ Offering him one more sharp grin, Sylvenna Sand crossed the common room gracefully to the steps leading further up into the quarters of the whores of The House of Kisses, with Essie hurrying after her. Neither woman looked back. Gyles sat back, considering what Sylvenna Sand had said. _I suppose I'll just have to wait a while longer yet, and see if my fortunes change._


	8. Maegor II

**Maegor II**

The servant gave Maegor a quick bow as she entered his chambers. Maegor had bid her to enter his room after hearing her light knock at his door. "The cooks are serving breakfast in the common room. Would you like some brought up to you, Ser?" _That's right. I'm a knight now._ The day after the battle at the Gullet, the Queen had called all of the dragonseeds into the Great Hall. Maegor, Gaemon, Addam, Hugh, Ulf, and Nettles had been bid to kneel before the Queen on her dais, flanked by her sons, the Princes Aegon and Viserys. Queen Rhaenyra's cousin, the Lady Baela, watched from the wings along with the Queen's Lords and knights.

_For their leal service, and in the memory of the much-lamented death of the Prince of Dragonstone, all of the dragonseeds were to be knighted, with the exception of Nettles, who was instead promised an exceptional dowry from the Crown for when she chose to marry. Addam Velaryon was naturally knighted by his grandfather, Lord Corlys the Sea Snake. However, the Sea Snake also knighted Maegor and Gaemon, declaring that for their actions in saving Spicetown and High Tide the day previous, they were both considered "steadfast friends of House Velaryon." Ser Lorent Marbrand, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, knighted Ulf and Hugh. Afterwards, the Queen had declared that there would be a feast held in the evening to commemorate her son, the Prince Jacaerys, and to celebrate the great victory that he had led the seeds in winning, though he hadn't lived to see it. The seeds had been bid to return to their quarters and prepare for the feast._

Realizing that he had been letting his thoughts wander, as he was regularly wont to do, Maegor sat up further in his bed and faced the servant girl. "No thank you, Serra. I believe that I'll break my fast in the common room today." The girl nodded, and gave a quick curtsey before exiting his chambers, quietly closing the door behind her. Climbing from his bed, Maegor walked to the small window in his chamber and stretched, enjoying the feeling of his muscles tightening, chasing any lingering tiredness from his frame. The morning air was a refreshing caress to his face, and Maegor liked looking through the window, far beyond the castle and surrounding village out to the distant sea. At the end of the day, the open water was as true a home to Maegor as any other place that he'd lived throughout his life. _Vaster than any castle in Westeros, and teeming with more riches than the vaults of kings_.

Crossing his room, Maegor found a pair of black breeches, which he pulled on. He then dressed himself in a black silk doublet, with a proud red three-headed dragon stitched skillfully across its front. He pulled on a pair of supple leather boots, dyed a deep black color to match the rest of the clothing he'd been fitted for. Standing in front of a silvered mirror placed in one of the corners of his chambers, Maegor regarded his appearance, running a hand through his short brown hair. Stormy blue-grey eyes looked back at him from a face settled in a passive expression.

Standing at six-and-a-half feet tall, and weighing somewhere over sixteen stone, Maegor knew he was a striking figure. From a life previously spent at sea hauling nets full of fish, Maegor was quite strong and muscled, though had been somewhat lean. Though never underfed throughout his life, upon beginning to live at Dragonstone's castle and eating the fare usually reserved for lords and knights, Maegor's frame had begun to fill out more, making him look even more imposing than before. Of all the seeds, he was most similar in appearance to Hugh, the smith's bastard. However, though he was slightly taller, Maegor knew he was nowhere near as strong as Hugh, having seen the man win a bet made with a guardsman by twisting a steel bar from Dragonstone's forge.

Continuing to regard himself in the mirror, Maegor wondered if he bore any resemblance to his namesake and great-great-grandsire. From all the stories he'd heard, Maegor the Cruel had been a huge and hulking man, though Maegor assumed that his namesake had been blessed with the looks of Valyria unlike himself. Maegor's mother had brown hair and blue-grey eyes, making Maegor the only child of hers and Denys' to not in some way resemble the dragonlords that Maegor, his father, and brothers were descended from. _"Mayhaps you are," his brother Aenys had said when Maegor had asked his father and brothers if they thought he was similar in size to their ancestor. "But methinks you aren't half as sour as he was. He certainly wasn't remembered as Maegor the Soft-Spoken, or the Gentle." With a grin, Maegor's brother had continued. "Such a shame. The body of a warrior wasted on a man with the heart of a Septon."_ Maegor found himself smiling at the memory, before it quickly twisted into a bitter frown as the sadness returned. Looking away from the mirror, Maegor exited his chambers and descended the steps to the common room.

As he approached the table, he saw that he was not the only seed making an early start to the day. Gaemon sat at the table, as well as Nettles. Gaemon grinned and made a joking flourish with his hand to an open seat, and Nettles simply gave him a friendly nod as she peeled an apple with a knife that she usually kept up her sleeve. Maegor took the seat that his friend had offered him, and thanked a servant when they offered him a bowl of honeyed porridge. Taking a bite of the porridge, Maegor was pleased at the sweet taste. Though simple fare for a Lord or knight, things like porridge with honey were a delight to Maegor. Chewing, he thought about the feast that had occurred the day he'd received his knighthood.

_The food had been unlike anything he'd ever seen before, much less tasted. For their crucial role and heroism in the battle, the dragonseeds had been given seats of exceptional prestige and honor directly below the Queen's high table. Maegor was situated towards the right end of the seeds' table, with Gaemon on his left and Nettles on his right. Course after course was served, and Maegor couldn't believe how good all the food had tasted. To name a few, they included roasted pig drizzled in a honeyed sauce, capons cooked in a crusting of sugared almonds, and hearty soups tasting of spices that Maegor never knew existed. It seemed the flow of food would never end. Despite the celebratory nature and good spirits shared by most of the feasts' attendees, it seemed to Maegor as though a cloud hung over the high table, dampening the spirits of all who sat at it._

_As he sat and ate, Maegor could only think of how his father had boasted that he and his sons would sup at the Queen's table. How excited he had been to hear those words. Yet now he kept company with none of his family save their lingering dreams and ambitions that haunted his thoughts. Looking up at the Queen's table, Maegor observed those who sat and ate at it. At the left end was Lady Baela, followed by Prince Viserys, and then the Queen herself. To her left was her son Prince Aegon, followed by Lord Corlys and his grandsons._

_Maegor's gaze had lingered on the faces of the Princes, neither of whom seemed interested in the food being presented to them. Maegor realized that they had lost two brothers in a short amount of time, just like him. The Lady Baela ate with enough of the poise expected of a noblewoman, but there was no trace of anything but sadness in her features or demeanor. He knew that until the day before, she had been the betrothed of the Prince of Dragonstone, destined to one day rule as Queen herself. Maegor suspected that the only thing that the royal family truly wished to do was grieve, but their obligation to celebrate a great victory forced them to be gracious hosts, hiding their sadness behind polite toasts and acknowledgements of valor and service to their cause. The Queen's forces had won a great victory, but men died in great victories, and the price of this one had been a beloved Prince._

Looking up from his bowl of porridge, Maegor looked across the table at Gaemon and cleared his throat. When his friend turned to regard him, one eyebrow raised, Maegor began to speak quietly. "I feel that it is long past time that I accept your offer to accompany you to the training yard. Now that we're knights, I feel that I would be remiss to not have at least some knowledge of how to wield a sword." In the short silence following his statement, Maegor felt awkward, and a little ashamed. He realized that he had barely even spoken to his friend in the time since he arrived at Dragonstone's citadel. Much of the words spoken between the two of them had been Gaemon suggesting things that Maegor could do at the castle, with Maegor morosely refusing and continuing his self-imposed isolation whenever possible.

Gaemon simply grinned and nodded enthusiastically. "Alright then. I'm sure that Ser Marbrand will make a fine warrior of you. However, I must warn you that if we're to spar, I won't go easy on you just because we're from the same village!" Maegor's friend chuckled after his statement, clearly indicating that it was one made in jest and without malice. Maegor gave him a wan smile.

Gaemon then turned to Nettles, who had begun to eat the apple she had peeled. "And you, Nettles? Surely you must have found things to do in this castle beyond scandalizing the knights and their ladies at every opportunity?"

Nettles' face broke into a crooked grin, and she chuckled, taking another large bite out of her apple. "I'll be feeding another sheep to my Sheepstealer after I finish breaking my own fast. I'm worried that ugly bastard will start to forget who tamed him if I don't." Feigning a haughty look and accent that Maegor had seen and heard from many noblewomen throughout the castle, the girl continued. "You'll have to pardon me for not accompanying you to the yard to watch you train, good sers." Gaemon laughed, and Maegor found himself smiling at the jape. Nettles grinned, but it soured after a moment. "I'd honestly have preferred if the Queen had given me a damn knighthood like the rest of ya. The only reward I've been given is a dowry. Seems to me all that does is make my lowborn cunny a bit more appealing to those highborn arses." With that, the girl returned her knife to its sheath hidden within her sleeve, and gave Maegor and Gaemon a final smirk before standing and striding to the door leading out to the yard. Opening the door, she took another wet crunching bite from her apple, and disappeared beyond it into the morning light.

* * *

"Keep your shield up!" Ser Lorent Marbrand's voice rang across the yard, but Maegor had already fallen for his opponent's feint. Maegor grunted as the blunted sword struck his side. He'd overcommitted himself in an attempt to press an opening that he thought he'd found in his opponent's stance. Instead, he'd opened himself up to a quick retaliatory strike that would have been as painful as it would have been fatal had the swords been sharp castle-forged steel. He could tell that he'd have a large bruise from that hit. Maegor nodded in acknowledgement at the young man who had landed the blow.

The squire, only about a year younger than Maegor himself, inclined his head back at Maegor before speaking. "Well fought. Your size and reach will prove most useful as you become more experienced with a blade." He then turned and exited the dusty ring as Lord Commander Marbrand entered to speak with Maegor.

Pointing at the shield on Maegor's arm, Marbrand began to speak. "A shield is meant for more than simply displaying a knight's heraldry, young ser. I've been watching you as I've had you spar with different opponents. I can tell that you try to think out your moves, even in the heat of combat. That can be dangerous, when crucial decisions need to be made from moment to moment." Lord Commander Marbrand paused for a moment, before tapping a mailed finger on the shield strapped to Maegor's arm. "That's what this is for. A shield will buy you some respite from an opponent's attacks if you use it well, but we knights train so as to make our swordplay more instinct than calculation. With many more years of experience, the time spent making decisions in a fight will lessen until the correct thrust or parry comes as naturally to a man as walking."

The sun was beginning to get low in the sky, and many had begun to trickle out of the training courtyard. However, several men remained, including Gaemon. Marbrand nodded at Maegor approvingly. "That's enough for today. No man walks away from his first day of training as skilled as Ser Galladon of Morne."

Maegor nodded at the veteran knight. "Thank you ser. It is an honor to be able to train under a man of such skill." Marbrand inclined his head in return, and Maegor turned to walk from the ring. It was then that he heard a hiccuping laugh ring out from a shadowed corridor opening into the training yard.

Ulf the White sauntered into view, swaying only slightly. It was clear that the man was in his cups, and after a moment Hugh the Hammer appeared as well. The giant man's face was similarly flushed, but he seemed much more cognizant of his surroundings than the other seed. Ulf regarded Maegor standing in the ring, and a grin spread across his face. "Aha! The fisherman is learning to fight. I s'pose tis only fitting. It'd be a shame for a knight to not know how to wield a sword."

Lord Commander Marbrand had turned to regard the silver-haired seed, a slight frown upon his face. "That he is. All men must needs begin somewhere. I daresay no man has come from his mother's womb with a sword in hand."

Ulf chuckled at the Lord Commander's words. "Fair enough, I s'pose." The man's face suddenly lit up. Grabbing a blunted sword and shield, Ulf hopped into the ring. Maegor was surprised that the man staggered only slightly when his feet hit the ground. "Then let me be your last fight of the day, _Ser_ Maegor. I swear on me da's bones that I won't be too rough on ya."

Ser Marbrand had opened his mouth to retort, a full-fledged frown now having spread across his face, but Maegor tapped the knight on the shoulder. When the knight turned to face Maegor, Maegor pointed at the shield still on his arm. "It's alright, Ser. I would like to try fighting more with my shield, like you've suggested." Marbrand pursed his lips, obviously hesitant at allowing a novice to fight a man with more experience in swordplay who was very clearly in his cups.

After a moment's hesitation, the knight nodded. "Fine then. But the fight ends the moment either of you lands a decisive blow on the other. You are both anointed knights, and I expect you to spar as such." The Lord Commander exited the ring, leaving Maegor standing and facing Ulf, who was unable to stand still without a small amount of swaying. The man gave Maegor an over-the-top bow, which elicited several chuckles from the men remaining around the ring, the loudest of which rumbled forth from the lips of Hugh the Hammer.

Maegor raised his shield and stood firm, waiting for the drunken seed across from him to make the first move. Ulf swung his sword forward, testing Maegor, but Maegor easily turned the blow aside with his shield, as Ser Marbrand had taught him to do earlier that day. Maegor gave a probing jab of his own, but Ulf side-stepped and avoided the attack with surprising grace, laughing. Each time Maegor attempted to attack, the silver-haired seed would merely dodge or block the blow, laughing louder each time. He had made no further attempts of his own to attack. Maegor was beginning to grow angry, and the increasingly loud snickers from Hugh and several other onlookers did nothing to cool the simmering anger within Maegor. _What enjoyment does this sot get from trying to enrage me? First his comments at the inn about my father and brothers, and now this jape of a sparring match._ If not for the timely arrival of the guard at the inn that night, Maegor did not know what he would have done. _I don't think I'd ever been as angry as I was in that moment._

After a cackling Ulf dodged another attack, Maegor had had enough. Hugh Hammer and several of the onlookers were laughing uproariously, shouting taunts like "Ya have him now Ulf!", or "Come now, Ser Maegor, you _almost_ struck him that time!" Out of the corner of his eye, Maegor could see that several onlookers had not joined in the laughter or taunting. Lord Commander Marbrand had a very annoyed expression on his face, while Ser Harrold Darke, the former squire of the deceased Lord Commander Steffon Darklyn, was frowning. Gaemon was glaring darkly, looking angrily between Ulf and the laughing spectators.

Maegor gave up fighting defensively, and attempted to force an end to the fight by rushing forward at the pale-haired seed across from him. However, by the way he grinned, Maegor knew that he'd fallen right into the other man's trap. Knocking Maegor's heavy overhead swing aside with his own shield, Ulf swung his sword in a savage downward strike against Maegor's right knee. The explosion of pain made Maegor grimace in pain and collapse onto his other knee. His sword had clattered away upon being knocked from his grasp by Ulf's shield. Panting, Maegor struggled to maintain his balance and gather the strength to stand while Ulf bowed mockingly.

The seed chuckled disdainfully. "Apparently the giant has a weakness after all." Maegor struggled back to his feet, and glared at Ulf as he continued with his mockery. "Such a shame. Truth be told, I expected more from one of the beloved 'Heroes of Driftmark'." Ulf said the title with such vitriol that it seemed to Maegor he nearly spat it out. "Oh well. I s'pose life is full of disappointment." He began to walk from the ring, but then halted in his movement, turning to look back at Maegor with a cruel smile as he called back loudly. "If the rest of that family of yours was as bumbling as you, it's no wonder that the lot of them became a dragon's meal."

Maegor closed the distance between him and Ulf in a heartbeat, and the man's nose crunched as Maegor's right fist connected with it. Maegor used his free hand to wrench the shield from his left arm while Ulf sprawled back into the dusty yard. The man tried to stand, clutching at his broken nose while it gushed blood, but Maegor kicked him in the stomach savagely, relishing at how the man coughed violently and fell backwards. Digging his knee into the sot's gut, Maegor began to pound his fists into the man's face. _He insulted them once. I won't allow it again._ He could vaguely hear voices shouting behind him, but Maegor paid them no mind. His vision was tinged red in its corners, and Maegor punched Ulf in the face again and again.

 _One for father._ His fist slammed into Ulf's right cheek, snapping the man's head to the left and spraying blood along the stones of the yard. _One for Aegon._ The sot's head snapped to the right as Maegor's fist connected with his left cheek. The man burbled something up at Maegor as blood sprayed from his lips, and his hands clawed at Maegor's face. _One for Aenys_. Ulf's head slammed backward so hard from Maegor's punch that his skull rebounded back from the cobblestones. The man still struggled weakly, and Maegor continued to hit him. Ulf's fists weakly beat at Maegor's chest, and Maegor batted them away. The man's face was a bloody mess, and his hazel eyes were full of fear. Maegor raised his bloody and aching right fist high, preparing for his strongest punch yet. _Die_.

Strong arms grabbed his right arm, and another set of hands grabbed his left arm. Maegor was savagely yanked away from the senseless Ulf and dragged back several feet. He struggled mightily against the hands on his arms. _I wasn't finished_.

"ENOUGH!" A voice roared in his ear, and Maegor recognized it as Lord Commander Marbrand's through the haze of his rage. The man was holding his right arm, while Gaemon clutched his left. Harrold Darke and several others were standing beyond Ulf, who was on his knees and coughing up blood. Maegor saw that they were restraining Hugh Hammer, keeping the man from continuing his advance towards Maegor. Maegor stopped struggling, but he still felt as though his blood was boiling inside him. Somewhere within the citadel, the dragons were roaring. The sound filled Maegor with an indescribable vigor that burned away the throbbing pain in his fists.

Maegor was dragged to his feet, and Ser Marbrand stalked out between all the men in the yard as Ulf was helped to his feet, holding a cloth to his nose to try to stem the flow of blood. Glaring at both Maegor and Ulf, the Lord Commander spoke angrily. "Enough! I don't care that the both of you are knights _and_ dragonriders. If something like that _ever_ happens again, I'll have the both of you dragged into the yard and lashed!"

The fight was gone from Maegor. He just felt tired. "Let's go, Maegor," Gaemon muttered, and Maegor nodded his assent, allowing his friend to lead him from the yard.

* * *

The cool morning air on Maegor's face helped to chase away the lingering exhaustion of a sleepless night spent tossing and turning with indecision. Maegor had left the castle early in the morning, at least an hour before the sun was due to rise. His fight with Ulf the day before had forced him to confront a difficult truth. _Your family is gone, whether you wish it was so or not_. Though trying to ignore that truth may have saved him some pain in the moment, Maegor realized that the internalized grief and despair was slowly beginning to poison him. _I was going to kill that man_. Maegor could still remember the fear in Ulf the White's eyes as Maegor had pummeled him with his fists.

As a knight and dragonrider for the Queen, Maegor knew that the fates of many now depended on him. The newfound responsibility was terrifying to Maegor. _From hauling fish to flying dragons_. When he had first tamed the Grey Ghost, Maegor had felt an almost childlike excitement as he soared high in the air. That day, being a dragonrider meant being able to see the world as a bird in the sky would, and to be the subject of adulation of the masses. It wasn't until the fight over the Gullet that Maegor truly understood what it meant to be a dragonrider. _To be a dragonrider is to be a harbinger of death_. Maegor and Gaemon had without a doubt saved countless lives by burning the fleet of the Three Daughters off the coast of Driftmark. To do so, however, had meant immolating hundreds. _In one battle, I have killed as many or more men than even the greatest warriors of the stories and songs slay in a lifetime of battle._ Maegor knew that if he was forced to choose between burning hundreds of marauders to save innocents or doing nothing, Maegor would burn the marauders a hundredfold times. That didn't stop the occasional nightmares of the fires and screaming, however.

To meet the expectations of those who depended on him, as a knight and a dragonrider, Maegor knew that it was time to put his ghosts to rest. Chained into Grey Ghost's saddle in front of Maegor, Septon Bennard was still clutching the chains in a tight white-knuckled grip, but he had stopped mumbling prayers to the Mother for her mercy. When Maegor had visited the Septon in the pre-dawn gloom at the almshouse, he hadn't exactly known what he wanted to say. But as he had told the Septon of his grief and fears for the future, what Maegor needed to do became clear. _The shades of my father and brothers should wander no longer_.

The Septon had been gracious enough to agree to accompany Maegor back to Dragonstone's citadel as the sun had begun to rise, and the guards at the gate had made no protest to the elderly man of the faith being admitted inside. When he visited the seeds' quarters, Maegor was unsurprised but grateful that Gaemon agreed without hesitation to join him and Bennard. Making their way to where Grey Ghost and the other dragons roosted, Septon Bennard had clutched the crystal hung with frayed leather twine about his neck and muttered prayers as the unnatural glowing eyes of the dragons had regarded him and Maegor. Securing the Septon and himself in Grey Ghost's saddle, Maegor had begun to fly the dragon back towards the cottage where he was born and had lived most of his life. Gaemon followed behind closely on the Cannibal, having taken flight from the part of the citadel where his dragon was kept apart from the rest.

As the Grey Ghost slowly descended towards the cottage, Maegor supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised that everything looked the same as it did the day Maegor departed to climb the Dragonmont. The skiff and rowboat still sat on the bluff below the cottage, facing out to the sea. It was on this bluff that Maegor landed his dragon, before dismounting and helping the elderly Septon to the ground. Gaemon landed the Cannibal on the bluff as well, unchaining himself and hopping nimbly from his saddle.

As he looked out towards the morning sun glittering across the waves, Maegor remembered his first trip out to sea with his father and brothers. _Maegor had been nervous the further away from shore the skiff sailed, and hadn't dared move from the center of the boat, fearing that he'd fall into the water. "Come here, boy," his father had said, and after a moment's hesitation, Maegor had joined him at the ship's prow. Smiling, his father had pointed at the water spreading out before them, glittering in the sun. "Look at how all that water catches the sun. There's not a more beautiful sight in this world than the sea on a sunny morning. But to experience the wonderful things in life, we can't afford to cling to the shore." Smiling, Maegor felt the fear begin to melt away. Reaching down to the water, he scooped some of it up in his palm, watching it glitter like gold, and felt richer than any lord._

Though it had taken Maegor and Gaemon some time, they had managed to gather enough driftwood to make a small pyre on the bluff outside the cottage. Making his way up to the door of the cottage, Maegor hesitated, feeling unsure of himself. There was a firm pat on his back, and when Maegor turned, he saw Septon Bennard standing behind him, a reassuring smile on his face. Not far behind him, Gaemon also gave an encouraging nod. Resolving himself, Maegor stepped inside. The cottage's interior was dark, and a fine layer of dust coated everything within it. _It feels wrong to disturb anything within_. However, Maegor refused to falter. The Sheepstealer had left nothing of his father and brothers for Maegor to cremate in the Valyrian funerary tradition, so Maegor had resolved to burn each of their most prized belongings instead. _It is the best means of closure I'm likely to have_.

Moving first to the mantle, Maegor found his father's pan flute. It was coated in an even greater layer of dust and grime than anything else within the cottage. _They've sat there untouched since mother died_. Maegor's mother had loved when his father would play the pipes for her and their children, and Maegor could vaguely remember his father playing jaunty tunes in the evenings after supper, to the delight of his mother and brothers. _Father loved to play, but it did naught but remind him of the wife he'd lost_. Wrapping the pan flute in a cloth, Maegor made his way over to Aegon's bed, and the trunk that sat at its foot.

Opening the trunk, he retrieved a fine leather cloak from within. It had simple and crude threading along its edges, in a vibrant red color. Without mother's help, Aegon had done his best, but his skills in needlework had been sorely lacking. _Aenys guffawed when Aegon had presented the cloak to him, Maegor, and Denys. Wiping tears from his eyes, Aenys had begun to speak while Aegon flushed in embarrassment and annoyance. "You plan on placing that about fair Lyessa's shoulders? The threadwork on its edges looks like it was done by a drunken sailor at sea in a storm!" It was no secret throughout the village that Aegon and Lyessa, the tanner's daughter, had begun to grow more than fond of each other. Aegon hoped to marry her soon, and had been fashioning a bridal cloak for her, using expensive red threading to accentuate the blood of King Maegor that flowed in his veins_. Maegor draped the cloak over his arm. _I hope Lyessa didn't accompany them the day they sought out Sheepstealer_ , Maegor thought with a grimace. Maegor suspected that she still grieved for Aegon's death. _Is it a mercy that she never knew Aegon was planning on asking for her hand in marriage?_ Maegor didn't know.

Making his way over to the trunk at the foot of Aenys' bed, Maegor hesitated. Of all the members of his family, Maegor and Aenys had been closest. When Denys had made the hard decision to send Maegor to the almshouse, it had been Aenys who had protested against it most fiercely. When Maegor had returned from his time on the Dragonmont, it had been Aenys who had been most overjoyed to see him, though he hid it behind japes. After his return, it was clear that father was not going to return Maegor to the almshouse, but even if he'd tried, he knew Aenys would never have accepted losing his brother a second time, and would have fought their father every step of the way.

Maegor sighed and closed his eyes, then forced himself to open the trunk. Reaching inside, he retrieved four smooth wooden balls from inside, each painted in a different garish color. Aenys had bought them from a visiting Pentoshi mummer after the man had taught him to juggle, and ever since Aenys took every opportunity to demonstrate his skill at it.

More than once, it had won him free drinks and meals at the inn. He would juggle and do tumbles across the common room floor to the laughter of its patrons, including his own father and brothers, Gaemon, Wat, Malda, Melyssa, and Alyssa. Whenever asked why he'd so willingly make a fool of himself for the amusement of others, Aenys would grin and give the same answer each time. _"My family is descended from royalty, and every court needs its jester."_ Despite the humorous answer, Maegor knew the real reason. Aenys loved laughter, and cherished it even more when he could be the cause of it. _He would have been happy if he could have spent his whole life making people laugh_.

Making his way back outside, Maegor placed the flute, cloak, and painted wooden balls on the driftwood pyre. Bennard smiled kindly, and had retrieved a stick of incense from within his white robes. To Maegor's surprise, many of the people of the village had gathered on the bluff as well. _Of course they have, two dragons just descended from the sky and landed right outside their village_. They stood silently at a respectful distance, and Maegor realized that Bennard must have explained what Maegor was doing. Looking at them, Maegor saw many familiar faces. Wat stood there, and even old cantankerous Malda had left her chair at the inn and made her way down the hill. Melyssa and Alyssa had also made the journey. Maegor saw Gaemon speaking with his grandparents, as well as several of their other children, who had families of their own. Maegor then saw Lyessa, who smiled kindly at him even as tears ran down her cheeks. Noticing that he had exited the cottage, Gaemon turned and waited expectantly, watching Maegor in silence along with the other village folk.

Placing a hand on Grey Ghost's head, Maegor hesitated a moment as he faced the pyre. Steeling himself, he whispered "Now" to his dragon, and it released a short burst of flame, lighting the driftwood pyre. Bennard waited a moment for the initial heat of the flame to die down, before he stepped forward and lit his stick of incense off of the pyre's flames. He began reciting prayers to the Seven as the pyre and the objects on it burned brightly, turning to ash. Maegor watched it in silence, and for the first time in a long while, he realized that the sadness and pain within himself had receded.

When the flames had died out, and naught but ash remained, the villagers slowly trickled back to the village. Many stared at the dragons in wonder for a time, but hardly any words were spoken. Lyessa was the last of them to turn and walk back up the hill. Only Maegor, Gaemon, Bennard, the Grey Ghost, and the Cannibal remained on the bluff. Turning to Bennard, Maegor swept his hand in the direction of the boats and cottage. "Septon Bennard, I do not ever intend to return here. My family has been put to rest, and my father and brothers may now rest along with my mother and sister. However, it would gladden my heart if you would find a new family to inhabit this home. They are welcome to everything that remains within it, as well as to the boats and nets."

The old Septon smiled. "You are a good man, Maegor. These gifts that you give will mean the world to whomever receives them. I will begin asking among my brothers and sisters in the faith on this island about any who have a need for a home."

Maegor nodded his thanks, and helped the Septon back atop the Grey Ghost. He then turned to Gaemon. His friend had been looking out towards the sea, with an unreadable expression on his face. Upon seeing Maegor turn to face him, however, he turned in kind to regard him.

"Gaemon, do you-" Maegor began, but then hesitated, feeling a twinge of sadness. He thought about everything that had happened since he had parted ways with his father and brothers for the last time, the day Maegor had traveled to the Dragonmont. "Do you think they'd be proud of me, Gaemon? Of everything that I've done. Taming the Grey Ghost, flying into battle, receiving a knighthood?" There were countless other things, but Maegor thought he'd gotten his point across.

Gaemon thought for a moment, but then gave Maegor a kind grin. "That's where you have it wrong, Maegor. It seems to me that they were always proud of you." With that, Gaemon made his way over to the Cannibal, climbing into his saddle and chaining himself in. Maegor did the same, securing himself and Bennard in place with the Grey Ghost's saddle chains. Rising into the sky on his dragon, Maegor took one last look at the cottage that had been his home. There was a lump in his throat, but for the first time since he'd tamed the Grey Ghost, Maegor felt a sense of peace. _Goodbye_.


	9. Hobert I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! We appreciate all the support and feedback that this story has been receiving so far. It's a pleasure to be able to share this journey with all of you, and we're excited to continue! We probably should have done an author's note before this, but as the story and its community has grown, it felt especially necessary to do one now. So think of this as our first shout-out to our audience! The cast wanted us to pass along their greetings as well, so greetings from Westeros (as war-torn and bloody as it is currently).
> 
> Thanks again everyone, and we hope you enjoy this next entry in A Tale of Two Dragons!

**Hobert I**

_Seven save us_. Another arrow cut through the air past Hobert Hightower's face, and he yanked his helmet's visor down, having forgotten it in the chaos. As leader of the baggage train, he had not been expecting to see any action, a fact that more than suited him. However, with the appearance of enemy forces bearing the banners of Houses Tarly, Costayne, and Beesbury at the rear of his cousin's army, Hobert now found himself surrounded by utter chaos amongst many wagons, as soldiers and knights struggled to face the unexpected onslaught. Several of the wagons had been set alight by burning arrows, and enemy knights rode through the gaps between wagons, cutting a bloody swathe through the men under Hobert's command.

One of his family's household knights that had been assigned to him as an attendant galloped towards Hobert on his grey charger. The man wore no helm, and was bleeding profusely from a deep gash along his forehead. "What are your orders, Ser?!" the man screamed. Hobert felt his heart clench in terror. Looking around himself, the aging knight felt his throat grow dry, constricting tighter and tighter the more he tried to think of what to say.

Having turned to face their foes attacking from the rear, Hobert and his forces were in a bad spot. Ahead of them was the rest of their own army, themselves fighting a desperate battle against another enemy force further ahead. To their left was the Honeywine River itself, and behind them was their foe. Hobert was no great tactician, but even he realized that he and his men were in imminent danger of being outflanked. Turning to the bleeding knight, Hobert opened his mouth, listening to his voice grate forth, raspy and brittle with fear. "I need but a moment to collect my thoughts, Ser."

The knight regarded him with a look of incredulity, squinting at Hobert with his left eye, for his right had been blinded by his own blood as it poured down his face. "But Ser! The men need orders! We don't have enough knights, and the foot that had been marching in the rear with us are on the verge of breaking and fleeing!"

Hobert merely stared mutely at the man, his face frozen in fear and indecision. _What to do, what to do? O Crone, please lend this poor soul your guidance._ When no divine inspiration was forthcoming, Hobert had to fight back the urge to weep. _I should never have left the Hightower._

The sound of approaching hoofbeats caught the attention of both Hobert and the household knight, and Hobert twisted in his saddle, watching as a knight approached them, dressed in a white surcoat bearing the black cross sigil of his house. _Ser Tyler_. Hobert's goodson and the head of House Norcross rode to meet them, leading a small force of his own household knights bearing his sigil, as well as mounted men-at-arms. "Goodfather!" the knight called out to him, and drew up his destrier alongside Hobert. "I came with my men to help stiffen your ranks. It appears the situation at the rear has grown as desperate as it is at the front!"

Hobert fixated his goodson with a pleading expression. "Ser Tyler, I beg your counsel. I am unsure what orders to give my men in this time of desperation!" Regarding the enemy knights wheeling and charging to devastating and bloody effect against Hobert's men, the knight nodded gravely.

Turning to Hobert's attendant knight, he spoke quickly. "Draw the surviving men from beyond the outer wagons, and push as many of them together as you can to form a barricade. We'll still be heavily outnumbered, but at the very least we can force the enemy to dismount and force through the makeshift barricade on foot." The household knight nodded curtly, still trying to blink his blood from his eyes, and charged his horse back into the fray beyond, shouting orders. Hobert accompanied his goodson as they rode to join the survivors of the baggage train while they desperately pulled wagons together in a loose and haphazard defensive ring. They quickly dismounted and joined the rear ranks of a solidifying curved mass of soldiers. In such tight quarters, remaining on horseback would do naught but present the enemy archers an easy target.

Ser Tyler's plan had worked. The enemy forces were unable to get through their ring of wagons on horseback, and quickly began to dismount and attack on foot, pressing through gaps between the wagons, while others stopped to pull entire wagons aside, allowing small groups of their comrades to charge through. Hobert's surviving men were able to cut down some of their foes as they were forced to break formation and fight their way into the ring in small clumps, while Hobert's ragged troops remained in a defensive crescent. However, the majority of the enemy soldiers were knights in plate, while Hobert's own men were comprised of lightly armored foot: wagon drivers, smiths, levies drawn from the smallfolk, and other less well-trained and armed individuals that one would expect to find in the baggage train at the rear of an army.

It therefore did not take long for Hobert to begin losing men at a far greater rate than the advancing enemy. Ser Tyler turned to regard Hobert grimly as he hefted his longsword. "It appears that our efforts were for naught. There are simply too many of them. However, I intend to meet the Warrior with blood upon my sword!" He rushed forward to fill a gap that had just appeared in the crescent. Hobert drew his own longsword. It felt heavy in his hand. _I haven't sparred in years_. Hobert feared that he wouldn't have long to regret that mistake. He thought of the Hightower, the home that he had spent most of his threescore years in. He thought too of his three daughters. He tried to envision their faces, but in his panic, found himself unable to. _Oh girls, I'm sorry._ Hobert began to move towards the savage fighting in front of him, each leaden step feeling as though it took a lifetime.

Reaching the chaotic melee, Hobert had to quickly raise his shield in order to block a heavy strike from a man-at-arms with a longaxe. The blow partially cracked the top of his shield, and Hobert felt the impact strum painfully through his shield-bearing arm. The axehead had lodged into the thick oak, and the soldier pulled at the long wooden haft, trying to dislodge it. Seizing the opportunity, Hobert thrust his longsword forward as hard as he could. The man-at-arms wore naught but a frayed gambeson, while Hobert's longsword was good castle-forged steel. Its tip punched deep into the man's chest, and Hobert staggered forward, having overcommitted himself to the thrust and losing his balance for it.

He found himself nearly face-to-face with the man that he'd stabbed. The man's eyes were wide and brown beneath his tarnished and dented kettle helm. Hobert could clearly make out a red striding huntsman badge sewed onto the man's gambeson over his left breast, though several of the threads were loose. The man coughed violently, and blood sprayed across the steel visor of Hobert's greathelm. To his horror, some of the blood had made it through the visor, for Hobert could feel small warm drops of it upon his cheeks. The man collapsed limply, and Hobert barely kept hold of his longsword as it nearly wrenched from his grasp. Pulling his sword free of the man's body, Hobert struck its pommel savagely against the axehead still buried in his shield, managing to dislodge it.

Looking up, Hobert saw a knight approaching him through the fray. The man was tall, and his dirty dented plate gave him the look of a hedge knight. Hobert was no warrior. He had killed the man-at-arms through sheer luck, when the man's weapon had gotten stuck in his shield. He knew that this knight would make short work of him. Feeling terror clutch at his heart, Hobert began to mumble a prayer for the Mother's mercy as the knight closed the distance. A loud roar seemed to ring out in answer to it.

The brutal fighting ground to a sudden halt as men on both sides looked to the clouds. A blue dragon was descending from the sky rapidly, and it opened its maw, loosing a maelstrom of deep-blue flame. _Tessarion_. Distant screams reached Hobert's ears. Prince Daeron's dragon soared over the heads of the Hightower army, flying so low that Hobert could see its copper-colored belly scales as it passed over his head. With another roar, it began to immolate the host of enemy soldiers beyond the ring of wagons. Shrieks and cries rang within Hobert's helm. With the sudden appearance of the dragon and its devastating flames, the advance of the enemy collapsed. With their fellows shrieking and burning beyond the wagons, the enemy knights and men-at-arms began to run for the gaps that they themselves had forced through the wall of wagons.

This immediately caused large bottlenecks as they pushed and shoved to scramble through the small spaces, and Hobert watched in a daze as his own men began to attack them from behind savagely. The large hedge knight that had been moving towards Hobert turned to flee, only to be hamstrung from behind by Ser Tyler. Falling to a knee, the hedge knight clutched at the torn and bloody doublet of Hobert's goodson, begging for succor. Ser Tyler drew a knife from his belt and shoved its point through one of the eyeholes of the man's helmet. His goodson was not alone in his wrath. Butchers, wagon drivers, smiths, and smallfolk levy alike had no mercy for the men that had been about to slaughter them, striking down without hesitation all those that they could get their hands on.

Beyond the wagons, the enemy knights who had survived the initial blasts of dragonfire had lost all cohesion. Hearing thunderous hoofbeats, Hobert looked to his left. Holding his family's ancestral valyrian steel sword _Orphan-Maker_ high above his head, Ser Jon Roxton led a large mounted charge around the remnants of the baggage train into the stunned enemies at the army's rear. Many of the enemy knights had yet to climb back atop their horses, and were hewn down. Those that had not been killed in the initial charge led by Roxton began to flee, but they were closely pursued as they fled the field in disarray, continuing to take heavy losses.

Hobert stood in silence, trying to absorb all that had happened to him in a short few minutes. Tessarion had returned to the army's front, and was continuing to burn the enemy there. The men standing around Hobert began to cheer, many bleeding from half a dozen small cuts and wounds. Many more men lay unmoving on the ground, staining the dirt beneath them dark crimson with the last of their lifeblood. "It's over, Ser!" he heard a breathless voice call, and Hobert turned to see his attendant household knight. It appeared the man had survived, and though his face was still wet with blood, he had tied a ragged piece of cloth around his forehead to slow the bleeding.

Hobert suddenly found himself very short of breath. He had never been a man to take joy from the rigors of training and exercise that many skilled knights practiced throughout their lives in order to remain in impressive shape. Hobert had grown stout as he grew old, and his steel plate armor suddenly felt as though it were a mountain bearing down on top of him. Falling to one knee, he pulled open his blood-stained visor, taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs as the energy that had filled his veins during the heat of battle trickled away, leaving Hobert with naught but exhaustion and soreness.

With a look of concern, Hobert's attendant knight dropped to one knee next to him. "Are you alright, Ser?" the man asked in a worried tone. "I saw no wounds upon you as I approached." Hobert's left arm had begun to throb from taking the impact of the Tarly man-at-arms' longaxe.

Turning to the knight, Hobert began to gasp a question, "I beg of you, Ser, Ser…" he trailed off, having forgotten the knight's name.

"Ser Jared," the knight answered respectfully. He had grabbed a kerchief from a small pouch on his belt, and was trying unsuccessfully to mop the glistening blood from his visage.

"That's right, Ser Jared." Hobert muttered, feeling miserable. "I fear that I am in a fearful state. Would you please fetch me some water? I have a thirst." Though his entire body still felt sore (especially his shield arm), Hobert was beginning to breathe normally again. He desperately gulped water from a waterskin when his knight fetched it for him, and with the man's help got back to his feet. Retrieving his palfrey from a farrier limping from a bloody foot wound, Hobert was relieved to be back in the saddle. _I fear my time on foot will have given me frightful blisters_. Riding past several men moaning on the ground as a harried-looking maester prepared to amputate several of their mangled limbs, Hobert decided to find his cousins.

* * *

His lord cousin's pavilion was truly a splendid thing to behold. It was made of cloth-of-silver, and its entrance flaps had a proud white tower stitched across them in silk, and bordered in white pearls. Hobert had received word not long after the fighting ended that the army was to halt its advance and make camp, and that Hobert's presence would be expected as soon as Lord Ormund's pavilion was erected within the camp. Hobert had delegated the role of issuing commands to the remnants of the baggage train to his attendant knight, Ser Jarvis (or was it Ser Jared?), preferring instead to use the time to get out of his armor and change into a clean doublet.

Two guards with white tower badges sewn onto their jerkins bowed deeply as Hobert approached, and the one standing on the left lifted the flap up so that Hobert could step inside. Moving inside, Hobert was pleased that servants had already dropped incense within the braziers throughout the massive tent, which filled his nose with wonderful scents. Sitting at a large table across the pavilion was Hobert's younger cousin Lord Ormund, and at his side stood cousin Bryndon. Walking across the Myrish rugs laid across the pavilion's floor, Hobert moved to convene with them, wincing slightly from the blisters that had formed on the bottom of his feet.

Both cousins smiled as Hobert approached. With a grin, Ser Bryndon called out jovially. "It appears that the Seven have truly blessed our cause today! Our enemies lie burned and trodden underfoot while the rest have fled the field like rats, and not a single member of our family was lost in the fighting." Hobert smiled thinly back, and gratefully accepted a goblet of wine from a quiet servant. Taking a sip, Hobert was pleased to find that it was Arbor Gold. _There is no finer taste than a good Arbor vintage_.

Nodding back at his cousins, Hobert voiced his agreement. "It appears that fate itself is on our side." Taking another sip of Arbor Gold, Hobert considered the battle that had been fought earlier in the day. _It seems a miracle that any of my kin and I still live, let alone as victors_.

Lord Ormund chuckled, taking a sip from his own goblet of wine. "Fate and the Seven may have been on our side today, but it is our kinsman and my squire Prince Daeron that won the day. I mean to knight him for it tonight at the conclusion of a great feast to celebrate our victory. Though many Lords of the Reach, including several of mine own vassals, have proved false rather than true in supporting the pretender Princess Rhaenyra, I should think that their power within the Reach has been thoroughly broken after today." Smiling, Lord Ormund raised his goblet into the air, preparing to make a toast, and Ser Bryndon and Hobert followed suit, raising their own goblets. "To the victory that we won today! Let our allies in the Westerlands and the Crownlands bring fire and sword to the King's enemies, and uphold the precedents established by the Great Council of thirty years before!" Hobert drank deep of his Arbor Gold.

A household knight bearing the Hightower sigil on his doublet entered the tent. "My Lord, we have the prisoners."

Lord Ormund nodded curtly, setting his goblet on the table and standing. "Have them brought in, Ser. I wish to see and speak with them." Hobert saw the eyes of Ser Bryndon glittering with interest. Turning, Hobert watched as two men were led into the tent by a contingent of knights and men-at-arms. At their head was Bold Jon Roxton himself, with _Orphan-Maker_ in its sheath on his hip.

Both men were forced to their knees, still wearing scraped and dented steel plate armor beneath torn and dirtied doublets. One of the two, a young man, wore a green doublet with a proud red huntsman stitched across its front. The other, an older man with short yellow hair receding into his scalp, wore a striped gold and black doublet with three golden beehives down its center in gold thread. Both men glowered balefully at the three Hightowers standing before them, and at Bold Jon.

With a small sardonic smile, Lord Ormund addressed the two men. "If it isn't my goodbrother, Lord Alan Tarly. And I dare not forget the heir to Honeyholt and mine own vassal, Ser Alan Beesbury. I missed the sight of your banners while gathering my levies outside of Oldtown, Ser."

Ser Alan Beesbury glared darkly. "I would never march under the banners of a false Lord, whose kin disobey a King's will and imprison my Lord grandsire for protesting. Mark my words, my Lord, I'll see him freed."

Jon Roxton snorted. "Not now, you won't. You'll be lucky to keep your own head after facing the King's judgement." Beesbury continued to glare at the men surrounding him hatefully, but said no more.

Turning to Lord Alan Tarly, Lord Ormund smiled sadly. "It's truly a shame. I had hoped that you were as wise as your sister. It appears that you both have a certain fire within you, but you, my Lord, do not seem to share an intellect with my lady wife."

Lord Alan Tarly's expression darkened as he retorted. "I see now that it was foolish of my Lord father to marry my sister to a scheming rat like you. Alas, it seems the true faces of you traitors weren't revealed until now." He then spit at Lord Ormund's feet.

Both Ser Bryndon and Ser Jon's hands leapt towards their sword hilts, but Lord Ormund merely laughed and held up his hand. "You are a fiery one, indeed. Mayhaps some time spent as a prisoner and traitor awaiting judgement will serve to temper you." Turning to Roxton, Lord Ormund raised an eyebrow. "Where are the others? I thought none of the enemy commanders save Lord Rowan escaped the field?"

Bold Jon laughed. "Lord Costayne won't be seeing anyone soon. My _Orphan-Maker_ saw to that. The maesters said he won't make it to the day's end." He then shrugged. "As for the Bastard of Bitterbridge, I was informed that he received grievous burns along the left side of his body. Apparently his horse threw him in the Honeywine when both were set alight by the flames of Prince Daeron's dragon. I've heard he'll likely live, but he's unconscious and covered in ointments and bandages within the maesters' tent."

Lord Ormund nodded. "I want the Bastard of Bitterbridge kept alive if possible. His trueborn family hold him in high esteem, and he may prove useful in taking their castle." Clapping his hands together, Lord Ormund nodded. "Alright then. I want word sent out throughout the camp. Tonight we celebrate our great victory, and those to come."

* * *

Sitting at the high table, Hobert was able to look out with ease over the entire feast. The fare being served was about as good as one could expect on the road, but Hobert still missed the finer types of food that he had come to expect after a life lived inside the Hightower. Though they had not yet marched too far beyond the walls of Oldtown, this day was surely one to celebrate. As Hobert's cousin had pointed out, the battle had resulted in a decisive victory for the King's men, with much of the usurper Rhaenyra's supporters in the Reach having been killed, captured, or scattered; no longer able to stand against his cousin's army in the field.

Hobert sat with other family relations at the high table, to the right of cousin Bryndon. To cousin Bryndon's left was Lord Ormund, and to his left the Prince Daeron Targaryen. The young Prince and squire to Lord Ormund had landed his dragon to elation and cheers, and many toasts in his name and honor had been made throughout the feast. _He surely won the day for us_. Hobert had seen dragons several times throughout his life. The most notable memory of them that he had was when he had traveled to King's Landing as a much younger man to attend the wedding of his cousin Alicent to King Viserys, the first of his name. They were creatures as magnificent as they were fearsome, but Hobert had never seen their destructive capability until this fight along the Honeywine. _One dragon turned certain defeat and slaughter on our side into a crushing victory_. Hobert was more than glad to be alive, but he'd already had his fill of war, and wished to return home. _But my commitment to the cause of my family is not nearly finished_.

Biting into some roast duck, Hobert remembered the day that he had been dragged into the conflict. _Hobert had finished his breakfast within his chambers as he was wont to do each morning. With the salt breeze blowing through his window, Hobert loved to look out over the city of Oldtown from his perch far up the Hightower. He had planned to make his way to the citadel that day. Archmaester Lomas was to give a lecture on his recently finished tome, a treatise on the history of raven training that he had been studying his entire life. Hobert oft would find himself attending these lectures. Much of the information made little and less sense to him, but if he nodded sagely when the maesters in the audience did, he found that it didn't seem to matter. He liked the air of wisdom and intelligence that attending the lectures seemed to give him amongst the members of his family, though he dreaded the times he was asked to explain the things he'd heard._

_As a servant took his empty silvered dining tray from his desk and exited the room, cousin Bryndon had entered. "Cousin Hobert!" Bryndon had called with a smile, and Hobert had stood to meet him, surprised at his presence. He absentmindedly brushed food crumbs from his doublet, and ran a hand through the few thin gray wisps of hair that still clung to the top of his scalp. Hobert had thought that Bryndon would be in council with their cousin Lord Ormund, planning for the gathering army's march north and east towards King's Landing._

_Bryndon leaned against the sill of Hobert's window, his grey doublet rippling in the breeze that always blew at this height. "As you well know, cos, the army is to march very soon." Hobert nodded silently, wondering if his cousin took him for a fool. Of course he knew that. All any in the Hightower and the city of Oldtown seemed to be talking about was the army of levies, sellswords, and freeriders gathering beneath the city's walls. Instead, Hobert gave his cousin a thin smile. Still grinning, Bryndon continued to speak. "Truth be told, as we were discussing which members of the family would stay and which would march, as well as what positions in the army they would hold, we had all but forgotten about you until this morning!" Bryndon laughed merrily, and Hobert hid his own chagrin behind a quiet chuckle._

_Much of his family seemed to forget the fact that Hobert still lived, or that he even existed. As the youngest son of a Lord Hightower long dead and interred, Hobert had never been destined for any sort of title, and his overall lack of distinguishment in any subject meant that he would never win any fame as a knight, maester, or septon, which were careers that many younger sons within the Hightower family pursued in order to make a name for themselves. Hobert didn't mind though. What some would call a life lacking ambition, Hobert would call a life well-spent in peace and comfort. He had married a maid of House Cuy of Sunhouse, and had three daughters by her. His two eldest daughters had been married well, the eldest to the heir of House Bulwer of Blackcrown, and the middle to the Knight of Norcross. His youngest had been given to the faith, and became a Septa. He had lived a quiet life with his wife in the Hightower until her death years before, and hoped to continue living unassumingly until the Stranger came for him as well._

_Hobert felt a sense of significant unease as he regarded the smile upon his cousin's face. That fear had been realized only moments later. "All of us must needs serve the family, cos," Bryndon had begun, "and as a knight, it is as much your duty as it is mine and Lord Ormund's to march with this army and see that cousin Alicent's son keeps the throne that is his by right, established by the precedent of the Great Council." Bryndon grinned and clapped a strong calloused hand on Hobert's round shoulder, making Hobert wince slightly. "Congratulations, cos. You've been given command of the baggage train." Hobert had felt sick. The Gods truly were cruel to curse him so._

The feast had gone on for hours. It seemed as though every knight and lord in the pavilion wished to make a toast, and their frequency only increased the further and further they descended into their cups. Hobert smacked his lips as he finished another goblet of Arbor Gold, beginning to feel the exhaustion of a terrifying and stressful day catch up with his ancient body. Hobert had been blessed with an exceptionally long life, but as each year passed, the harder Hobert found it to face daily rigors, much less fight in a battle in full plate.

In one day, Hobert had survived a savage melee, witnessed the presentation of the captive enemy commanders, and stood alongside his cousins as they had accepted the swords of captured enemy knights and soldiers to the King's cause. Nearly none chose the alternative, which was a swift death by sword. Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and a half-incoherent Ser Tomard Flowers had refused to be reconciled, and so remained prisoners of enough status and station that they would be transported with the army to face the judgement of King Aegon, the second of his name, himself.

Hobert watched with interest as Lord Ormund bid his squire, the Prince Daeron, to rise and join him before the front of the Lord's high table. With a wave of his hand, Lord Ormund's guards stationed throughout the pavilion began to beat their spears against their shields, drawing the attention of all present at the feast, and driving them to silence. Smiling, Lord Ormund placed a hand on the Prince's shoulder, and began to speak loudly, his voice carrying throughout the canvas walls of the pavilion. "Our army was in nothing short of a desperate state before your arrival at the field of battle today, my Prince. If not for your bravery and skill, we surely would not have been able to win this great victory today, and continue on our quest to secure your brother's crown against the usurper Princess Rhaenyra." He bid his squire to drop to one knee, which Prince Daeron did quickly, ducking his head. The Prince's silver hair gleamed in the red light given off by fires burning in braziers throughout the pavilion.

Drawing House Hightower's ancestral valyrian steel longsword, _Vigilance_ , Lord Ormund placed it on his squire's shoulder. Hobert was filled with pride as he watched his kinsman and Prince of the royal blood be knighted by Lord Ormund Hightower. _Now this is a moment worthy of the songs and stories_. "Rise, Prince Daeron Targaryen, and henceforth be known by a title worthy of your valor." Lord Ormund smiled. "Rise, Ser Daeron the Daring!" A raucous and exultant cheer roared throughout the pavilion, and Prince Daeron, now a knight, rose with a shy smile.

Addressing Lord Ormund, but speaking loudly enough that all in attendance could hear, the Prince began to speak. "My Lord is kind to say so, but the victory belongs to Tessarion." The Prince's proclamation was followed by further cheers and toasts to the dragon Tessarion, known as The Blue Queen. Hobert smiled and found himself drinking more Arbor Gold with pride as further toasts were made. _Moments like these are much more enjoyable when experienced in person as opposed to reading about them or hearing them in songs_. Hobert still felt sadness when he thought of home, however. Raising his goblet of Arbor Gold to his lips, Hobert made a silent toast within his mind. _To the true King, and ensuring that he keeps his rightful crown. And to home, which I hope with all my heart to see again before my time in this world reaches its end._


	10. Veron I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hello again, everyone! I thought it necessary to add a note to the beginning of this chapter in order to provide a warning that it will feature some darker content than the rest of our story has so far. While violence is no stranger to A Tale of Two Dragons, this chapter features implied violence of a sort that has not yet appeared. I took care to write this in a way that I felt did justice to the horrors of war and the subsequent mistreatment of innocents, but without including anything gratuitous. I'd like to thank all the readers for continuing this journey with us.

**Veron I**

_The storm had come._ For years, since his return from reaving, Dalton had claimed that Westeros would tear itself asunder. The death of Viserys I had been the spark necessary to set off the conflagration. _Perhaps Dalton truly does see what other men do not_ , Veron thought to himself. _Most of the Ironborn seem to think so; they claim the Drowned God himself whispers in his ear_. Even as a child, Dalton had always been different, always picking fights with older boys and volunteering to row aboard ships as young as five. Veron had idolized him in their youth, his older brother who could command the respect of men many times his age. Born only a year after his elder brother, the two of them had become inseparable. Dalton had encouraged him to row with him, fight with him, and explore Pyke with him, and Veron had been happy to oblige. In return for allowing him to join in his adventures, Dalton commanded obedience. Veron learned very quickly that he was to be his brother's right hand, and that there was no room for two to lead. _I am fairly certain that my acceptance of those conditions is why we've remained close,_ Veron thought.

Since their childhood, not much had changed. As the 129th year since Aegon's conquest drew to a close, and the realm began to bleed, the brothers counted 16 and 15 name days respectively. As Dalton had built ships, assembled crews, and prepared his strategy, Veron had remained at his side. As Dalton had waited for ravens bearing offers of alliance, Veron had trained. Their preparations had finally paid off, as ravens did indeed come from King's Landing. The first offer came from the usurper, Aegon II, and had offered to name his brother a place on the Small Council as master of ships and of the admiralty if he would agree to sail his longships around Westeros and engage the Velaryons, who had declared for Rhaenyra. Dalton had handed the letter to Veron after he had finished scanning it, grinning a smile that sent a chill down his spine.

"The Greens must be desperate to offer an Ironborn a seat on the Small Council. It has taken over a century for the Dragons to beg aid from the Krakens."

Veron, having finished scanning the letter, raised his eyes to meet Dalton's. "Will you accept?" He knew the answer before Dalton had even spoken.

"Of course not, brother. Why lose men and ships to Dorne's whirlpools in exchange for a greenlander's titles? I'd much rather pay the iron price in exchange for something much more valuable…" Dalton drew a knife and stabbed it into a map that lay spread before both of them, its black blade swaying from the force of the impact. Veron followed the blade to where it had embedded itself in the table. It had pierced straight through where Lannisport was marked on the map. He nodded his approval. Dalton's lips parted to reveal another toothy grin. "The best part is, the Dragon Queen will be begging us to pillage her own lands. We will pay the iron price for every bit of gold wrenched from the hands of these Westermen. While their men go to die for the usurper, we will rule the Sunset Sea, as our forefathers did." Chuckling, he then added: "We will show their women what it is like to lay with true men, as opposed to those spineless milk-drinkers. I'm sure they'll be ever so grateful." He gave Veron a slap on the back. "There will be plenty of salt wives for the taking when we sail. I promise to leave some of the homelier ones for you, brother."

Veron nodded, smiling. He hoped his brother didn't catch the lack of enthusiasm at the prospect. He had learned very quickly to keep _that_ aspect of himself hidden. _We've always been close, Dalton, but every man needs a few secrets._ Veron knew with the coming campaign that he'd finally have to stop putting off the taking of a salt wife. _Or several,_ he thought grimly. He realized that he had been thinking for too long. "Perhaps this time I'll beat you to the comely ones. You cheated last time, taking that corsair king's daughter for yourself while I ran him through!"

Dalton nodded, his eyes glazing over as he clearly took a moment to reminisce. Veron let out a sigh internally. _Good, nothing amiss. The corsair's daughter always does the trick._ Her death had been unfortunate, lost overboard in a storm. _Perhaps it was for the best_ , he thought. _She did seem miserable._ As Veron turned to leave, he felt Dalton's hand grip his shoulder.

"Give orders for ravens to be sent, brother. It is time for our fleet to begin amassing. I want to see at least one longship from every lord in Lordsport's harbor by the end of the moon. I expect the Dragon Queen's offer to arrive soon."

* * *

Dalton had been proven correct once more as a raven arrived, this time from Dragonstone. The Dragon Queen had indeed come to bargain with the Kraken. The words she used, however, pleased the Lord Reaper of Pyke and the Iron Isles a good deal more than her half-brother's had. Within, her request was simple:

_Lord Paramount Dalton Greyjoy,_

_I have little doubt that my treacherous brother has written to you, attempting to sway you to his cause. I have little doubt that they mean to use you to break my blockade of the capital. In response, I have written to ask you to declare for my cause instead. While King's Landing is many leagues from Pyke, Lannisport and Oldtown are not so far. Bring Fire and Blood to my enemies and I will see you rewarded for your service._

_Signed,_

_Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm._

Rhaenyra's letter proved to be exactly what Dalton had wished to receive. When, seated on the Seastone Chair, he read it to the assembled Lords and Reavers within Pyke's great hall, their roar shook the stones of the keep. He stood and raised Nightfall, his Valyrian steel sword, its moonstone pommel glinting, and shouted: "It has been too long since the sight of longships off the coast of Westeros meant death and terror for the greenlanders! The Sunset Sea longs for its true masters to return. The Westerman have quit hiding behind their walls and have sallied forth for their King, but they have left their castles and cities open to our wrath. We shall make their riches, their lands, and their women our own! We are Ironborn! We DO NOT SOW! Follow me, and I promise I will make legends out of all of you, and we each will prove ourselves true sons of the Drowned God!"

Veron had never seen men raised to such a fever pitch. They began to shout his brother's name continuously, before clearing a path for him to walk out of the great hall. Veron strode alongside his brother as they exited, following just behind and to the right, as was customary by this point. Gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, Veron tried to maintain his composure. _As excited as I am, it still wouldn't do for me to follow my brother out grinning like an idiot. Besides, the 'Grinning Kraken' sounds like the name for a fool, not the brother of the Red Kraken himself._ Their journey took them across Pyke's great bridge, to the enclosed fields beyond, and past the kennels and outbuildings until they arrived at the stables. Mounting their horses, they rode the distance to Lordsport in what felt like a record time. Veron was pleased to finally be able to dismount; as he never felt truly comfortable in the saddle, especially compared to how he felt on the deck of his own _Misery_. Fortunately he could spot his longship's sails from where it was moored in the port. _Soon we will be out to sea,_ he thought. The sounds of waves, gulls and the shouts of sailors preparing to embark never failed to make Veron feel alive.

Dismounting, the lords and captains gathered in a large ring near the quays housing their ships. Once all had assembled, Dalton began to share the specifics of his plan. "The greenlanders of the Westerlands are well-known for their riches. As I already mentioned, Lord Jason Lannister has departed Casterly Rock with thousands of his knights and sworn swords in order to invade the Riverlands. This presents a perfect opportunity for us, my lords. The Lannisters maintain a fleet of galleys at Lannisport. If we are able to take the city, and burn their fleet, we will cripple their ability to strike back, and will open the entire coast to our reaving. Once Lannisport is ashes, we will take Fair Isle, in order to secure it as a base for the fleet. After those two opening moves, I will turn you each loose to seek your own fortunes. Your reaving will bring honor to the Drowned God!" Turning to the Drowned Priests in attendance, he knelt, allowing one to pour salt water upon his head. Veron followed, feeling the cool seawater trickle down his cheeks. Each lord and captain in attendance repeated this process, before breaking into groups and seeking out their own ships. As Veron approached the _Misery_ , his eyes narrowed.

"You three were not supposed to be here." He said, trying to keep his tone even and not betray the smile he felt tugging at his cheeks. His three younger sisters stood in a line, waiting on the quay that separated his _Misery_ from Dalton's _Red Tide_. Each of them sported hair as black as the dresses they wore, their dark eyes sparkling mischievously. Alannys, the eldest, wore a golden necklace fashioned into the shape of a kraken around her neck. Closing the distance between them, Dalton took ahold of the necklace around his sister's neck. "And how did you come about owning this bauble, Alannys?"

Her cheeks flushing red, she mumbled: "I- I had it fashioned for your departure, brother." Dalton frowned, before letting it drop.

"Our house pays the Iron Price for such things, sister. Only Greenlander whores should bedeck themselves so. The next time you wear such things, I want to hear they were ripped from the hands of their previous owner."

Nodding her head quickly, Alannys showed she understood. Dalton, satisfied, nodded curtly to his three sisters before climbing the gangway onto his ship to supervise its launching. Veron stopped, facing his three sisters. Keeping his face straight, he faced each of them with a cool expression, watching them squirm under his gaze. Deciding he'd tormented them enough, his hands shot out to grab Morgana, the youngest. He lifted her into the air, swinging her around as she screeched with laughter. Asha and Alannys quickly began to sport grins, and when he finally placed Morgana back down, all three accepted his invitation for a hug. He gave each sister a kiss atop the head, before finally separating to climb aboard the _Misery. I've never understood why Dalton must treat them so coldly. Mayhaps he thinks legends don't love their sisters._ He smiled internally. _It is a good thing I'm no legend, then._ He gave orders for the ship to disembark, and it quickly did so, taking its place in the long line of longships slowly exiting Lordsport and heading out to sea.

* * *

It had taken the better part of a week to assemble the full fleet off of the coasts of the Iron Islands and to sail it to the outskirts of Lannisport. They had waited until nightfall to sail between Fair Isle and the mainland, in order to mask their approach. The Drowned God must have approved of their endeavors, as they had been almost entirely concealed by heavy fog that rolled off the deep sea as they sailed nearest to the shore. Once they had passed through the strait, the fleet gathered en masse just out of sight of the shore and organized itself into battle formation. They greased the oarlocks in order to minimize noise and rowed towards where they estimated Lannisport would be. Soon, lights along the shore became visible, with a large lighthouse standing tall above the bay. Veron strained, attempting to see the Rock in the distance, and was shocked to find that some of the stars in the night sky were actually lights shining from the top of the Rock less than two miles away. It was far bigger than he could have even imagined. _It is good Dalton had no intention of storming the Rock itself. Our siege works would resemble the works of ants to those at the top._

The fleet broke into smaller divisions as it approached the harbor itself. Veron was pleased that all remained quiet. It seemed they had yet to be spotted. They had been ordered to maintain strict silence, as well as to only use the lights of the city to find their way to the target. The torchlit walls of Lannisport grew closer and closer, and Veron was able to make out that the beach was perhaps only fifty feet away. The fleet was large enough that many of its ships would be landing outside the walls, and tasked with scaling the walls and opening the gates to allow for the entrance of the army. Dalton had opted to lead around twenty longships into the harbor itself to neutralize its galleys and other vessels before securing the docks. At fifteen feet out, they withdrew the oars into the vessel. Merrick, a particularly zealous crewmate, jumped and disappeared entirely into the water. He resurfaced sputtering, and the crew had to suppress chuckles at his annoyed appearance. _He is lucky he couldn't afford plate. Otherwise that'd have been the last we'd have seen of him._ Veron had worn plate while they were out at sea, harboring no fear of the waves. _If the Drowned God decides it is my time, no amount of effort on my part will undo that verdict._ He had once more affixed his plate, its jet black appearance designed to inspire fear in his enemies. It was lined with gold to complete the Greyjoy colors. Alongside the armor itself he had chosen a sturdy shield and longsword, figuring that the extra protection would allow for him to make sure he didn't suffer any needless wounds in the upcoming battle.

Other men had begun to jump into the waves to guide the craft to shore, and Veron jumped in alongside them. The water was cold, but refreshing. Veron's heart had begun to beat quickly in anticipation for the coming battle, and as they guided the boat to shore, the rest of the crew disembarked, several nocking arrows in order to deal with any guards that thought to take a look over the ramparts. Alongside them, dozens of other boats were landing along the beach, disgorging thousands of men. Veron raised his sword, and ten groups of fifteen men each advanced, bearing ladders with hooked ends and throwing them against the walls. When the first several ladders went up, Veron heard the shouts begin from within the walls. Faces appeared in the battlements, and a horn was blown. Tommard, one of the best bowmen on the _Misery_ , quickly loosed an arrow that found the neck of a guardsmen, who fell backwards out of sight.

Veron grabbed the nearest ladder andbegan to ascend, followed closely by Merrick, an axe in his teeth, who dripped salt water as he climbed. Reaching the top quickly, Veron heaved himself over the battlements onto the wall. Before him lay the body of the guardsman, still choking on his lifeblood as his eyes glazed over. Several other men in red cloaks and gambesons advanced, in order to stop the intruders from gaining control of the wall. The first rushed Veron, screaming, but Veron was able to catch his spear between his shield and side, and before the man could react had driven his sword into his throat. Gurgling, his opponent fell. The limited space of the wall assisted the Ironborn climbing up, as the Lannisport guardsmen could not advance more than two abreast to confront the attackers. Another guardsman advanced, bringing his sword down in a savage slash, but Veron turned it with his shield and responded with a powerful upward cut of his own that took the man's arm nearly off at the shoulder. By now, near a dozen Ironborn had reached the walkway, and the guardsmen were falling quickly.

Reaching the nearest guardhouse, Veron was shocked to find the door hadn't been bolted. He opened it, finding the passageway abandoned. He took the stairs to the ground floor quickly, opening the door, and was stunned to see the city guardsmen fleeing from the walls. A horn blasted in the distance, as the Greyjoy banner was unfurled at the gatehouse to the cheers of the men on both sides of the wall. The gate was unbarred and pulled open, and a tide of men surged through. Some guardsmen who hadn't lost their nerve rushed to intercept them, but against the better equipped and experienced Ironborn were quickly cut to pieces. _This is pathetic, even for the Greenlanders_ , he thought, as the Ironborn quickly formed into their designated units (based off of what ships they had arrived on) and began to advance down the cobbled streets deeper into the city.

Veron himself led his own crew, along with Balon Wynch and Melwick Myre and their crews. Advancing down a wide street, they approached what looked to be a major market square. _If the garrison refuses to fight, our army may begin the sack too early. It would be unwise to allow our forces to disperse too quickly._ He gave orders to Wynch that the men were not to sack the city until an all-clear was given, but he was certain his orders were going to only be partially followed, as flames had already begun to dance amongst the buildings closest to the walls and screams had begun to echo along the cobblestone. Entering the square, Veron found the first major opposition to his advance. Across the square, a hedge of spears faced him, comprised mostly of city guardsmen, along with more heavily armored Lannister infantry (outfitted with mail). Atop a horse facing him was a Greenlander knight with a red cloak and red plate, with a golden lion embossed on the breast plate. _A lion emerges from its den_ , he smirked. _Let us see if it can dance with a Kraken._ The knight raised his sword, then pointed it at the assembled Ironborn and ordered his spear wall to advance. Veron raised his blade. "Archers! Nock! I want as many of those spearmen dropped as is possible! Break up that formation!"

A chorus of "Aye, captain!" rang out, and arrows began to fly in deadly arcs across the square, many finding their targets. The spearmen began to drop, tripping up their comrades as they advanced. _The knight was wise to present us with a spear wall. My men operate much better in open spaces, and aren't accustomed to fighting so closely. It is fortunate we have archers_. After a second volley further diminished the cohesiveness of their enemy, Veron raised his sword once more.

"What is dead MAY NEVER DIE" he cried, and advanced towards the enemy. His men responded with cries of "but will rise again, HARDER and STRONGER!" and charged. It took a few moments to cross the cobblestones before smashing into the spearwall. Veron used his shield to deflect a spear thrust, worming his way between the upraised spears of two different men and bringing his blade down across the face of one. The man fell screaming. The other, his spear now useless for this range, dropped it to draw his dagger, but Veron had already driven his sword through the man's gambeson into his innards, dropping him. He advanced, a spear striking his breastplate before scraping off. To his right and left, his men fought their way through the spear wall, with Melwick Myre burying his axe in the head of a Lannister guardsmen. The men of the enemy formation began to waver, fighting a desperate battle that was rapidly turning against them. Their back ranks began to break off, running. The knight in the rear cursed and ordered them to hold, but only the professional soldiers had the discipline to do so. As Veron broke through, he advanced on the knight, who dropped his visor and urged his destrier to canter towards him. Veron picked up a spear from a fallen guardsmen and threw it with all his might at the horse, which screamed in agony as it pierced its neck, throwing the knight from the saddle.

The knight landed on the cobblestone with a deafening crash, and Veron cleared the distance between them quickly, jumping on top of the man before he could climb to his feet. Ripping the knight's visor open, he drove his blade into a terrified emerald eye. Roaring, he surveyed the scene. It appeared organized resistance was collapsing, as fires were spreading throughout the city and he didn't see any other groups of enemy soldiers approaching. _The survivors are likely either preparing to defend their homes or gathering at the keep._ Taking a deep breath, he stood. _Time to find Dalton_ , he thought to himself.

* * *

He found the Red Kraken in the keep's courtyard. After securing the docks, his brother had made straight for the keep, using a broken ship mast as a makeshift ram to force the gates. Dalton was giving orders to the lords Goodbrother and Harlaw as Veron arrived. From their vantage point atop the hill, they could see Lannisport glowing orange-red as flames from untended fires spread throughout the city. Dalton turned to face him as he advanced, his war helm glowing in the firelight. The helm was a masterpiece, forged to look like the head of a kraken, its tentacles hanging golden like a grotesque beard. Dalton had had rubies set in the tentacles, so as to evoke the image of them dripping blood. His brother removed his helm, his dark eyes shining in the light of the fires below. "The city is ours, Veron. They were completely unprepared, as I expected. We even managed to capture the majority of the ships in the harbor, both cogs and war galleys. I plan to send them to the Isles tomorrow to be crewed and added to the fleet. The loot from their holds alone would make this sack worth our time. But that is just the beginning. My men tell me the city's storehouses are full of foodstuffs and other exports. Several wagon loads of gold have also been discovered, along with several armories of war equipment. Material and gold enough to have raised another army. A shame we took it first. I am certain the Drowned God smiles on us tonight."

Veron smiled. He may not have bought into the way many men worshipped his brother, but he would be a fool to deny his talent for command. Removing his helmet, he clapped his brother on the soldier. "Well done, brother. I am only ashamed that I couldn't have been present to take this keep alongside you."

Dalton shrugged. "It was barely a fight worth being present for. Most of the Lannister forces had already shattered before we reached the gates. Its most formidable occupant was its Lady. When we broke into the hall, she shot one of my men with a crossbow she had loaded herself, before 'cursing us to the Seven Hells' and insisting her son would take our heads. You can imagine how pleased I was when I got word my own brother had slain him. That shut her up." Dalton nodded towards a woman staring blankly into the distance a dozen or so paces from them. "She's a bit old for my taste, but you can have her if you wish, Veron. It may do you good for your first salt wife to be a woman of experience."

Veron forced a chuckle. "Despite your _generosity,_ I would prefer someone who is not the age of our nan, Dalton. I'm sure somewhere in this city I can find someone a bit better." Dalton raised his eyebrow at the idea.

"I'll believe such things when I see them. For now, if you want to continue your search, you're welcome to accompany me. I've received word that one of the manses below is home to the mistress of Lord Jason Lannister himself. I simply _must_ make her acquaintance." Turning, Dalton gripped the hilt of Nightfall, and began strolling out of the keep. He directed his men to continue to strip it of valuables in his absence. Once through the gates, they took the main road down from the keep to a wide street that was already strewn with corpses. The buildings along this street were particularly ornate; each was several stories, and sat within low walls that enclosed small gardens, greenhouses, fountains, and other displays of Greenlander opulence. Upon reaching a particularly ostentatious manse, they were directed inside by two men standing guard at the doors. Within, they entered a parlor bedecked with rich tapestries, Myrish rugs, exotic furniture, and lit by a golden brazier that was wrought to depict dancing lions. Four women had been forced to kneel on a rug. Each had hair of beaten gold that fell curly past their shoulders, and emerald eyes. Two had freckles splashed across their faces.

The three youngest flinched when Dalton spoke. "What fair lionesses you all are! Each a jewel of the West to be sure…"

He was cut off by the eldest woman. "You'll hold your tongue, scum, if you know what is good for you. You may have taken this city unawares, but the moment my lion returns, you will be forced to flee to your Gods forsaken Isles. I have the favor of Lord Jason Lannister himself, and I assure you, his wroth will be terrifying should we be mistreated."

Dalton chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling. "The lioness does indeed have a bite. I confess, I'd have been sorely disappointed if I'd not been so lashed. You see, I have never had the opportunity to bed a lioness, let alone four. And if the eldest was worthy of the Lord of Casterly Rock, I am sure she will not disappoint." He turned to Veron. "I'm sorry brother, but each of these morsels is simply _too_ enticing to give up. I hope you can forgive me."

Veron breathed an internal sigh of relief. He gave Dalton a cold glance before turning to exit the manse, leaving his brother to his fun. _Four more salt wives in one night_. _Good thing no one is keeping count except for Dalton himself._ Wandering, he found his way into an abandoned manse and began rummaging around its halls. When he found an untouched wine barrel in the cellar, he breathed a sigh of relief. Pouring himself two full skins, he was pleased to find it was a spiced honey wine of the Lannisport variety. Making his way to a secluded garden in the rear of the manse, he unfastened enough of his armor in order to sit comfortably underneath the boughs of an apple tree. The night sky was black with smoke, and glowed orange from the light of flames. Drinking deeply, Veron could almost imagine he was somewhere else; a bonfire on the beach of a Basilisk Isle perhaps. Taking another deep gulp, he found himself taking solace in the warm drunkenness that he was settling into. _Soon I'll have to take a salt wife of my own_ , he thought bitterly. _It is either that or face blades in the dark._ At times he wondered if he'd be better off leaving his brother's side for somewhere else. A harsh laugh escaped from his lips. _I can only imagine my brother's face if I ever actually told him why I don't take salt wives._ Since Veron had first begun to understand what it felt like to want someone, he had known he was different than the other boys around him. _What a sick jape,_ he thought. _The Red Kraken, the lover of a thousand women, and his brother, lover of none._


	11. Gaemon IV

**Gaemon IV**

_The wait was the hardest part._ When word had come that the Queen required their presence, Gaemon had been all too eager to oblige. He had arrived early, having practically flung himself out of his bed and into a suitable doublet (black, with red highlights of course). Eating quickly, he had made his way with Maegor and Nettles to the Storm Drum, waiting expectantly at the entrance. Given how quiet the weeks since the carnage at the Gullet had been, he had often found himself wondering what the Queen's next move might be. There had been whispers of surrender amongst some of the guards, but he suspected that was untrue. There would have been no need for lengthy deliberation if Prince Jacaerys' death had broken the Queen's will to fight. _No, Queen Rhaenyra bides her time, and we stand at the ready to bring Fire and Blood to her enemies if they stir_ , he thought with pride.

While he had been waiting, Gaemon had decided to check on the Cannibal. Given its temperament, the dragon had been allocated a space in the main courtyard, close to where they had originally landed weeks before. _With a name like his, it's a wonder they don't wish to keep him with the other dragons_ , he thought with a smirk. As he had approached, the dragon partially uncoiled, its scales rasping and gliding across the stone of the courtyard. A green eye regarded him from over a folded wing. As he approached, the heat emanating from the creature became hotter, and he took a moment to enjoy the barely contained conflagration that was his dragon. Reaching its side, he turned his back to the beast before leaning against it. _It'd have never let me do this weeks ago,_ he thought to himself. With time, the two had grown more comfortable around one another, testing the limits of their relationship and learning what was, and wasn't, acceptable. The Cannibal had proven remarkably welcoming, as the amount of outright hateful stares it seemed to give had dropped precipitously. _Honestly, I think it just likes to be dramatic. This bond is new for it too, and such things take time to become strong_.

Ulf and Hugh were taking plenty of time to appear. _It appears the sot and the oaf must needs be woken from their stupor_. True to form, they appeared a few moments later, trudging through the mud of the outer yard, having presumably been summoned from the tavern in the village below. Both Hugh and Ulf looked to be in terrible shape, no doubt due to their prodigious consumption of wine the evening before. As they entered, a low hiss emanated from the Cannibal. _It seems I'm not the only one who could've done without their presence_. Gaemon smirked when he was able to start making out the fading bruises that Ulf wore across his face. _Maegor definitely showed us all a bit of his namesake during that match_. Gaemon had been ready to intervene the moment Hugh had, but luckily Ser Marbrand had done so first. _Blood would have been surely spilled, and men killed, if that had continued_ , he thought grimly. _I would gladly kill for Maegor, but even I am not such a fool as to like my odds against 'the Hammer_ '. _Hugh might have taken a fittingly unimaginative moniker for himself, but it does sum up his most intimidating attributes quite nicely._

Maegor himself regarded them coolly, but he clearly kept his emotions guarded. He had been less morose since they had laid his family to rest, a welcome change in Gaemon's eyes. He had begun to worry dearly about his friend, but it appeared that the final visit to his home had provided some much needed closure. Gaemon had been glad Maegor had asked him along, and he himself had been relieved to be able to say goodbye to his extended family. _They probably had no idea I was alive until that day_ , he thought as shame welled within him. Their pride and relief at his arrival had been obvious, and despite never having known his mother, he had found himself wishing she had been there to see it too.

Giving his dragon a pat on its scaled flank, Gaemon rose and returned to the assembled group of seeds. The five of them stood quietly, and Ulf's eyes dripped a barely concealed malice. _The silence is deafening_ , he thought to himself. Even Nettles seemed uncharacteristically unwilling to break the silence. Luckily, that task was accomplished by a household knight who appeared at the top of the stairs, as he opened the great doors of the Stone Drum.

"Noble Sers, I have come to guide you to where you will attend the Queen. Please follow me." Turning with a flourish of his cloak, which revealed a Velaryon color scheme, he beckoned them to follow.

As they were being guided through the Stone Drum itself, Gaemon had relished the opportunity to subtly observe the quarters where his family actually lived. The place was grim, to be sure, and certainly had an overabundance of draconic art. But the halls and stones themselves had an undeniable power; it practically radiated off of them. Despite the earlier feast they had attended, he still hadn't had much of an opportunity to actually walk the halls of the Stone Drum, basking in the presence of his ancestors' home and energy. Needless to say he was extremely excited, and further elated when he realised that the audience was not to be held in the throne room, but instead in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Constructed on the orders of the Conqueror himself, the very sight of it had sent shivers down his spine.

The smell of the sea filled the uppermost room of the Stone Drum. Gaemon focused on keeping himself still, his eyes focused on the massive carved table that depicted the entirety of Westeros sprawled out before him. Rivers, mountains, fields, and castles sprung up across its entirety, and he could almost imagine that he sat atop the Cannibal, miles in the air, surveying an entire continent beneath him. He was so engrossed in the thought he had to repress the urge to jump as a guardsmen struck the stone floor with his spear to announce the arrival of the Queen.

"All kneel, for you stand in the presence of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms." Gaemon knelt, and saw the others do so out of the corners of his eyes. Keeping his eyes downcast, he heard the Queen's footfalls as she approached, but was surprised that the whisper of a dress dragging alongside them was not present.

"Rise, my dragonriders. I have summoned you to attend me for it will prove most auspicious in the future histories. I intend for my reign to begin in earnest on this day."

Standing, Gaemon found himself facing his Queen transformed. Gone were the courtly dresses, the cheeks puffy from tears, the tangled hair of a woman plagued with little sleep. Instead, he faced a Valyrian warrior-woman of old. Clad in gleaming black scale armor, wearing her father's crown, and her silver hair braided, the Queen regarded each of them, holding their gaze with purple eyes that burned with an unexpected flame. She then turned, and taking Lord Corlys Velaryon's hand, ascended the steps to sit upon the raised chair above the Painted Table. Others quickly entered the room. The Princes Aegon and Viserys entered, along with Lady Baela. Viserys' hatchling was curled about his shoulders, and he smiled shyly at Gaemon and Maegor as he followed his brother into the room. Baela made eye contact with Gaemon, giving him a quick nod, before joining her half brothers to the right of where the Queen sat, elevated. Next came Addam and Alyn Velaryon, who joined their grandfather to the left of the Queen. Lastly came Lords Bonnifer Bar Emmon and Bartimos Celtigar, along with Maester Gerardys and Ser Lorent Marbrand.

Once everyone had been assembled, they waited, their eyes on the Queen. Surveying the room, she began to speak:

"My noble Lords and Sers, it was the intention of the Prince of Dragonstone before his death that we put our preponderance of dragonriders to good use. Before my beloved Jace was taken from me, he planned in this very room to take King's Landing from the Usurper. The Essosi dogs may have cut his life short, but his sacrifice will not be in vain. Today I aim to have vengeance for both of my sons, and Princess Rhaenys." Gaemon observed Lord Velaryon nodding grimly in response.

Rhaenyra began to speak again: "Much and more has happened since my dragonriders brought Fire and Blood to the fleet of the Three Daughters. We have received ravens from throughout the realm, some bearing good tidings, others ill. In the Reach, those loyal to my cause have been scattered after the Usurper's youngest brother arrived atop Tessarion. From what little information has arrived, it appears Lord Rowan has been put to flight, and there is no word of Lords Costayne, Beesbury, Tarly, or the Bastard of Bitterbridge. We can no longer count on any significant support from the Reach. In the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon has declared for the Usurper by allowing the murder of my precious Luke, but has not stirred since. Perhaps he regrets his decision. In the Westerlands, Lord Jason Lannister, yet another traitor, has summoned his levies and invaded the Riverlands to bring flame and sword to my leal lords." Rhaenyra smiled grimly. "Instead, he marched to his own doom. I have received word from Lord Piper that although Lord Lannister forced his way across the Red Fork, he took a mortal wound in doing so. His losses in manpower were also grievous. Better yet, the Red Kraken has finally stirred. Word has arrived from Lannisport, sealed with a Kraken. The Westerlands burn for their treachery."

Those assembled in the room had grown still, but the atmosphere was one of resolve, not hopelessness. The Queen continued.

"In light of the scale of the victory achieved over the Three Daughters, and the Red Kraken's declaration of support, I feel that my presence on Dragonstone is no longer warranted. Lord Corlys has informed me that he will now be quite capable of maintaining his blockade without any need for support. It is time we took King's Landing. Word has come from Harrenhal. The Kinslayer and the Kingmaker have departed King's Landing with four thousand swords, intent in bringing my Lord Husband and the Riverlords to battle. Instead, they will find naught but an abandoned ruin. Prince Daemon has begun his flight to King's Landing as we speak. We must needs join him. The Kinslayer has deprived the city of Vhagar, and the Usurper's Sunfyre is missing. From what I have been told, Helaena is in no state to ride Dreamfyre. The city might as well be dragon-less."

With those words, Gaemon could feel the anticipation growing in the room. His own excitement was palpable. _Prince Daemon flies to the capital, and I will soon be on my way to join him!_ He had imagined meeting his father countless times, but never in his wildest dreams as an accomplished dragonrider and trusted knight to a Queen. He forced himself to contain his emotions, as he saw the Queen opening her mouth to speak once more.

"My orders are as follows: Lord Corlys, send word for your fleet to prepare for immediate departure. I want your strongest ship to be prepared to carry Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon, along with Maester Gerardys and Ser Lorent. Have your men, along with those of Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon assemble and prepare for departure. Dragonriders, I want you ready to fly within the hour. Time is of the essence." Standing, the Queen was helped down from the chair by Ser Marbrand. As she turned to leave the chamber, Lady Baela's voice rang out.

"My Queen, allow me the honor to fly with you! I will never forgive myself for being unable to accompany Jace. But my Moondancer has grown since then. She is nearly ready to be ridden. Let me escort you to King's Landing as a true Targaryen!"

The Queen turned to face her cousin, and her hardened expression let up for a brief moment.

"Baela, I need you here. Moondancer grows larger each day, and we mustn't leave Dragonstone completely undefended. Besides, I will not make the mistake of sending young dragons into danger again." Rhaenyra approached Baela, whose face betrayed her emotional turmoil within. Placing a hand on her cheek, she smiled wanly. "I know what I ask of you may seem unfair, but it is for your own safety. Your father, my Lord Husband, would never forgive me if I caused you harm." Her face hardening, Rhaenyra's smile faded. "Besides, I have shed enough of my family's blood for my cause. From now on, only the Usurper will be made to pay such a price for his ill-gotten crown."

The Queen turned and left the chamber after those words, followed by her attendants. Viserys and Aegon each embraced Lady Baela, before being escorted back to their chambers. The dragonriders filed out last, as Gaemon hesitated. Baela dragged a clenched fist across her face, blinking back tears. "How am I to protect anything here? I've already lost my betrothed. The time will come when the Queen sends for my brothers; with their departure I will have nothing here to defend. Keeping me here does nothing but waste my dragon. I want to _fight_."

Gaemon shifted his feet. Even after he had spoken with Baela on a few occasions, he always found their conversations awkward. He never knew exactly what it was his place to say. _Damn it_ , he thought _, help her! Courtly precedent be damned!_ He sighed. "If I were in command, the choice would have never been in doubt. For what it's worth, this is a waste of your dragon, and more importantly, you." He hesitated, but decided to continue. "You've got fire, my Lady. Fire enough to burn all your enemies to ash. I can sense it. But you'll not be doing anyone any favors letting that fire be snuffed. You say Moondancer is growing. Learn to ride her. Develop your bond. Grow fiercer, together. When the war does come, as I'm sure it will, you'll be ready. And we will all rue the day we had to leave you behind." He gave his most encouraging grin.

Once more, he found himself ambushed by a fierce hug. _It really is uncanny how quickly she is able to pounce like this_ , he thought to himself. He considered not returning it, but decided he might as well return the favor, given that he'd already abandoned the pretense of courtly etiquette. As he wrapped his arms around her, she stood up on her toes to whisper: "I really do grow tired of this ' _my Lady_ ' nonsense. From now on, you must needs call me Baela."

He held her for a few moments longer before letting go. "The next time I see you, I want you to be on dragonback." Her purple eyes glowed with resolve as she nodded, beginning to grin. He found himself grinning back. He turned, realizing he needed to hurry. Turning when he reached the door, he added: "I'll see you around, Baela."

As he exited the room and made to retrace his steps down the hallways, he was surprised to find himself ambushed by Maegor and Nettles. Cracking one of her classic crooked-tooth smiles, Nettles spoke first: "You're going to get yourself in really big fucking trouble one of these days, Gaemon. I hope you know that."

Smiling wolfishly, he turned to Maegor, who crossed his arms as he appeared to be suppressing a grin on his normally stoic face. "I may have put it differently, but Nettles has a point, Gaemon."

"Of course I have a fucking point. I just don't want to see a fellow seed lose his head over some spilt seed is all. Especially not the one who buys me drinks."

Gaemon made a point of sighing loudly. "You are both concerned over nothing. Baela is my half sister. I'm simply excited to finally have siblings is all. Your drinks aren't going anywhere."

Nettles raised a dark brown eyebrow. "Even so, I'd be careful. The walls in these sorts of places probably have big fucking ears. And I don't think they like what they're hearing." Maegor nodded, still suppressing a grin.

"Fine, fine. The _barbed flower_ has made her point." Grinning, and clapping a hand on each of their shoulders, Gaemon led his fellow seeds down the stone steps.

* * *

Once they had assembled in the yard, it hadn't taken long for attendants to swarm them, in order to properly outfit them. Their armor had been recently polished and cleaned, and the plate gleamed darkly. A fierce rainstorm had begun, but underneath the layers of plate and padding, Gaemon could barely feel its effects, aside for the droplets hitting his helm. His armor appeared as pristine as it had been the day he had received it, except for the slight scar where an arrow had struck it during the Gullet. He ran a finger along the scratch, before placing the dark winged helm over his head and fastening it beneath his chin. Once he was ready, he nodded, and servants belted his sword belt around his waist. Afterwards, they handed him his dragon whip, its barbed length still coiled, and its dragonbone handle cool to the touch. Mounting the Cannibal, he fastened the saddle chains, and cracked the whip in the air. The dragon beneath him roared, his ears ringing with the sound and his frame shaking from the force. Rising onto its legs, the beast flapped its wings powerfully, sending gusts of wind forward and staggering those assembled before it. Turning them downwards, it beat them heavily towards the ground, rising incrementally into the air as the rain lashed it. _I'm grateful to have mastered one of the largest dragons,_ Gaemon thought _, as this storm would prove difficult for the younger ones to overcome._

They rose into the air and began to circle the citadel, as the other dragons climbed into the sky. Vermithor and Silverwing came next, carrying Ulf and Hugh, and just behind them came the Queen on Syrax, roaring it's greetings. The Queen's dragon was a huge beast with scales of yellow, close to the Cannibal and Vermithor in size. Next came the Sheepstealer, with Nettles' small frame perched upon its back in her black mail. Addam followed on Seasmoke, and Maegor and the Grey Ghost fought their way through the lashing rain to finally join the others. _Dragons enough to conquer the world_ , Gaemon thought to himself. _The Conqueror and his sisters took Westeros with less than half our number of dragons. Surely we can overcome the Usurper with numbers as great as these!_

The Queen raised her arm and cracked her whip as the storm raged, and Syrax roared in response, sending out a great gout of yellow flame that hissed in the rain. She led the column, and the others took their places behind her as they flew into the storm. Gaemon cast a final look into the courtyard below, where the assembled crowds were the size of ants. He could barely make out Moondancer, roaring mournfully as the dragons departed. Her slender pale green scaled form struggled against her heavy chains, and her pearl-white horned head tossed in frustration. A small figure rushed out of the keep to the dragon, and somehow began to calm it. _It seems your dragon is as incensed at being left behind as you are, Baela._ Turning his gaze away from the sights below, Gaemon cracked his dragon whip. The Cannibal sent a blinding blast of green flame at the storm clouds above in protest and began its flight, carrying them across the rocky fields of Dragonstone below. When they reached the shore, he could just make out a great fleet assembling. Dozens of Seahorse banners flapped in the wind and rain as the Queen's army embarked. Rhaenyra flew Syrax low, urging it to light the sky once more with its flames, and hundreds of soldiers could be seen waving and cheering below. Climbing back into the sky, the Queen led her dragonriders out from the island, and they began their journey over the grey and violent waves below.

* * *

After several hours of fighting their way through winds and rains that lashed them, a long coastline finally came into view. By this point Gaemon was thoroughly soaked through and had begun to shiver. _Truth be told, I'm not sure whether I am shivering from the anticipation or the cold,_ he thought to himself. They followed the coastline south, and soon a vast city could be seen. _Seven hells, I had always imagined it would be big, but this is absurd_. Gaemon hadn't ever really been able to comprehend what a city of over one hundred thousand souls would actually look like. The city loomed large beneath them as they banked over it, and as thunder rumbled the sound of bells ringing began to filter into the heavens. Slowly at first, the sound began to spread across the entire city, and soon it was ringing madly as every gatehouse, sept, and tower began to join the chorus. In response, the dragons roared, their challenges echoing downward into the streets below. Below, hundreds, if not thousands, of people were taking to the streets, running madly for the gates.

Gaemon and Ulf peeled away from the group and began to circle their assigned landing area, a square atop the Hill of Visenya, as they had been instructed to do before. Maegor and Hugh directed their mounts to do the same, flying towards the Hill of Rhaenys and the Dragonpit that sat imposingly atop it. Nettles and the Queen flew Syrax and the Sheepstealer towards the Red Keep, and as Gaemon watched their approach, a new dragon's roar split the skies. Emerging from the storm clouds, a huge red beast joined the Queen and Nettles above the Red Keep. _That must be Caraxes,_ he thought to himself. His stomach began to twist in knots. _Atop the Blood Wyrm sits mine own father_. Caraxes landed within the Red Keep first, assumedly to ensure the surrender went smoothly. Gaemon took that as his own sign, and urged the Cannibal downwards, cracking his whip and urging the dragon to emit a great searing blast of green flame as it descended. _Might as well give those below a show… and a warning._

Descending for the landing, Gaemon urged the Cannibal to what looked to be the statue of a former Targaryen king that sat at the center of the square. His dragon landed heavily in the clearing, and despite the crowds he had seen streaming out of the city earlier, hundreds had still managed to gather around the edges of the square itself. Behind him, in the northern corner, a great sept stood, its bells clanging noisily. _We get the point already,_ he thought to himself. _Bells signal a surrender! Do you really take us for the type of people that would burn innocents by the thousands?_ Freeing himself from his saddle chains, he coiled his dragon whip in his hand, fastening it to his sword belt as he dismounted. Grabbing a waterproofed leather container from his belt, he unclasped the seal and withdrew the proclamation he had been asked to read. _Maegor's insistence on teaching me my letters for all those years has really paid off_ , he thought as he smiled beneath his helm.

"People of King's Landing, this is a joyous day!" He began. "Long have you chafed under the rule of a usurper, who stole the crown from his own father's dying grasp in order to crown himself and steal his elder sister's birthright. Today, that sister has returned, to reclaim what is hers, and see herself crowned the rightful Queen. Rejoice! A new day has dawned, and the Queen offers clemency to those who stand down peacefully and accept her most benevolent rule."

A few cheers echoed out from the crowd, but for the most part it remained silent. _They are probably too scared or shocked, the poor souls._ Rolling the parchment up, he gripped the pommel of his blade as he approached the crowd. Many stumbled backwards over themselves at his approach. Lifting his visor, he tried to show he meant no harm.

"Is there a crier among you?" He scanned the crowd, and eventually an older, heavyset and bearded man emerged.

"I have served in that role for many a year, master." The man said as he hobbled forward, clutching a roughspun cap in his hands.

"See that this information is spread throughout the city. The Queen will see you rewarded for your services." Gaemon handed the man the parchment before turning and walking the distance back to the Cannibal. Climbing up its scaled flank, he chained himself into the saddle once more, and giving a nod to Ulf, who had landed a ways away, he uncoiled his whip, cracking it, and urging the Cannibal back into the grey skies.

* * *

The Red Keep's main courtyard was absolutely crowded with dragons by the time the rest of the seeds had landed their mounts. Gaemon was pleased that he did not have to use his whip to dissuade his dragon from snapping at the others. _It is refreshing to see him making friends, at long last,_ he thought, suppressing a chuckle. The Queen stood alongside Nettles, and was receiving a report from one of the city guardsmen, who Gaemon was able to distinguish by his gold cloak.

"Anyways, as I was sayin, the boys and I made sure to grab the Grand Maester, and we took extra care to make sure not to let 'im send any of those birds of 'is flapping off. We 'ave received word from Ser Largent, and he says that Ser Gwayne Hightower is no longer kicking. All of the gates 'cept the River gate are in our hands; some Hightower knights and men-at-arms 'ave been giving the lads some trouble down there. We've received word your own men are pourin through the other gates though, so the city should be yours, your Grace."

Nodding graciously, the Queen responded: "I shall see that you and your men are amply rewarded for remembering your true loyalties to my Lord Husband and I. Please see to it that the Red Keep is secured, along with any persons of note who may be lurking within its walls."

Bobbing his head, the goldcloak left. As he did, a man in black plate emerged from another group of gold cloaks, before coming to kneel before the Queen. Taking her hand, he lifted his helmet's visor and planted a kiss upon her fingers. "It has been far too long, my Queen."

The Queen smiled warmly. "Rise, my Lord Husband." Gaemon's breath caught in his throat. The man removed his helm, allowing for pale silver hair to fall to his shoulders from where it had been kept beneath his helm. He turned to face the dragonriders who'd assembled behind him. "So these are my stepson's prized dragonseeds? I have heard so much about the lot of you. Roasting a fleet from the Three Daughters is no small feat. I could have put each of you to good use in the Stepstones." His eyes passed over each of them, resting on each for just a moment before finally turning back to face his wife. "My Queen, before we enter the great hall, I fear there are some fools that need attending to."

The Queen's eyes narrowed, and she followed her husband to the entrance of Maegor's holdfast, where a small crowd had assembled. The crowd had gathered in the courtyard outside of Maegor's Holdfast, just beyond a lowered drawbridge that spanned a gruesome dry moat filled with wickedly sharp iron spikes. At the center of the group stood a tall man, unbent with age, his brown hair heavily streaked with grey, coming to a point in a widow's peak. He frowned beneath an aquiline nose, his lips pressed firmly together into a thin line. He wore a grey doublet with white accents, and a golden chain around his neck. Next to him stood a beautiful woman in a green silken dress, with a golden circlet atop her head and a golden choker set with an emerald about her neck. Her long brown hair reached her waist, and was braided ornately. Her face was twisted in a barely concealed fury, and her brown eyes sparkled dangerously. Next was a tall man, dashing in red and gold silks. His eyes were as emerald as the stone in the woman's choker, and he had shoulder-length hair of beaten gold. The last individual of note stood tall, so straight that one got the impression that he had a spine of iron. His hair had once been black, but was now mostly grey, and he bore a patch of a green swirl-like image on yellow sewn into his grey doublet. Behind the group stood an assortment of household knights, men-at-arms, and what appeared to be a septon.

The Queen was the first to speak. "It has been too long since I have been able to regard that malice-filled face of yours, step-mother. I see you have surrounded yourself with _leal_ lords and _puissant_ knights. A shame, then, that most of the legendary ones have taken their leave of the city. You must forgive my intrusion. The doors were practically left wide-open, as it were."

"Enough of this farce, _Princess_. I have no time for your gloating. Instead, I beg that you heed my next words. This war has gone on for long enough. Let us together summon a great council, as the Old King did in the days of old, and lay the matter of succession before the lords of the realm." _That must be the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower,_ Gaemon thought to himself.

Rhaenyra scoffed at Alicent's entreaties. "Do you mistake me for Mushroom?" She asked. "We both know how the council would rule. Instead, you have one choice to make today, _stepmother_. Yield or burn."

The Dowager Queen bowed her head in defeat. Wordlessly, she raised her hands, offering the Queen the keys to the city and ordering her sworn swords to stand down and drop their weapons. Raising her head, she spoke, her words dripping with hate: "The city is yours, _Princess_ , but you will not hold it long. The rats play when the cat is gone, but my son Aemond will return with Fire and Blood."

The Queen gave orders for those assembled to be led away and detained, choosing not to grace the Dowager Queen's venom with a response. Afterwards, the assembled goldcloaks rushed into the now vacated Maegor's holdfast. Gaemon and the others stood waiting, expectantly, for what seemed an eternity in order to receive word the Usurper had been taken into custody. Eventually one emerged, looking decidedly downcast.

"We searched the entirety of the place, your Grace. We have found the Usurper's wife, Queen 'elaena, but there is no sign of the Usurper hisself. We broke the doors to his quarters, but found only his bed, empty, and 'is chamberpot full. Begging your pardon. 'Is children are gone too. The Princess Jaehaera and Prince Maelor are gone, along with two of the Usurper's Kingsguard, Ser Willis Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne. The former Master of Whispers, Lord Strong, is missing too. There is no sign of any of 'em, anywhere."

The Queen's eyes glowed with fury. "Seven curses upon my bro-the Usurper. Larys must have spirited them out while Alicent delayed us. Search the rest of the Keep. They may turn up yet." She then turned to face those still assembled. "As for the rest of you, I thank each of you for your service to my cause. We have struck a fine blow against our enemies on this day. I ask that you attend me for one final task." Turning, she strode imperiously out of the courtyard, retracing her earlier steps to where they had landed the dragons, before turning and approaching the largest of the pale red stone structures within the castle.

She bid some men-at-arms to open the great oak-and-bronze doors, revealing a cavernous hall. A long carpet ran along the center of the chamber, leading to a raised iron dais, upon which sat a towering and twisted construct of iron. _The Iron Throne,_ Gaemon realized he had been holding his breath as the doors were opened. _The seat of Kings certainly does not disappoint._ Queen Rhaenyra entered, ordering for braziers lining the hall to be lit. As the flames began to dance in the great bronze structures, the skulls of the dragons of old began to glow with an otherworldly light. _Balerion, Meraxes, Quicksilver, and Meleys._ He had repeated the dynasty's dragons so many times to himself he could recite them by heart. Meleys' skull was less blackened than the others, and he realized it had been full of life and fire only a few months before. _The Usurper must have had it cleaned and brought here after they paraded it through the city._

Scaling the narrow steps slowly, the Queen finally took her place, perched atop a mountain of melted steel. Gaemon's eyes followed Prince Daemon as he took a seat casually on the first few steps of the throne. Opening her mouth to speak, the Queen called for the black cells to be opened, and all prisoners to be brought before her for judgement. She also called for any and all prisoners of note taken throughout the day to be brought, in order to beg her forgiveness and swear renewed oaths of fealty. Messengers were sent, and after some time a huge crowd began to filter in, comprised of both men and women, young and old, wounded or simply possessing ruffled clothing. One by one, they began to kneel before the throne, professing their undying loyalty to the Queen and begging her forgiveness for oaths they had sworn to the Usurper "under duress."

While many of the lords and knights who had stayed true to the Queen's cause were rewarded for their loyalty with lands, offices and honors, none brought as much joy to the Queen as the appearance of an elderly knight, who was led coughing into the throne room.

The Queen's face lit as recognition dawned in her eyes. "Do my eyes betray me? Is that you, Ser Jarmen?"

The knight, reaching the base of the throne, knelt. "Your eyes do not deceive you, your Grace. The Usurper had me thrown into the Black Cells after I would not swear my sword to his cause. I have remained loyal to you since the beginning, as I was to your father and his grandfather before him. I ask now that you allow this old knight to swear his sword to your cause."

The Queen beamed down at the knight. Gaemon smiled beneath his helm, from where he stood with the other dragonseeds lining the path to the steps of the throne. _When she smiles so, it is easy to see why they called her the Realm's Delight. A shame this war hasn't given her much cause for joy._

"Your wish is most definitely granted! Rise Ser Jarmen Follard, knight of the Queen. Prithee, my Lords and Knights, let us give three hurrahs for true loyalty, a trait most rare in these days of bloodshed and betrayal." The hall shook as a thousand voices cheered. The Queen rose, and spoke again: "I wish to conclude this evening's ceremony by rewarding my truest servants." She turned her gaze to Ser Lorent Marbrand, standing at the base of the Iron Throne. The knight had arrived earlier with Maester Gerardys, along with Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon on the ships of Lord Velaryon's fleet.

"Ser Lorent, you are the last of my father's true Kingsguard. For your leal and unwavering service as a member of my Queensguard, I name you Lord Commander, and charge you with finding six knights of great loyalty and ability to replenish your brotherhood." Ser Marbrand knelt, and "thanked the Queen for the greatest honor he could aspire to."

Maester Gerardys was called forth next. The Queen spoke, saying: "My dear friend and council. As your astute mind has undoubtedly already ascertained, the office of Grand Maester lies vacant with the traitor Orwyle having been confined to the Black Cells. I wished to inform you that I will be writing the Citadel to inform them that you, my leal servant, will henceforth be the only true Grand Maester." Gerardys bowed low, his aged voice thanked the Queen for her generosity, and swore he would continue to serve her to the best of his ability.

With that, the Queen rose and gave orders for the hall to be cleared. Gaemon estimated that they were in the midst of the Hour of the Wolf. As the servants, knights, lords and other members of the crowd left the great hall, the dragonseeds continued to stand at attention, alongside Prince Daemon and Ser Marbrand. The Queen descended the steps, allowing for her Prince-Consort to help her. When she reached the bottom, she turned to Gaemon.

"You may remove your helmet, Ser Gaemon. We have one matter that must needs be discussed before the evening is out." He could feel the eyes of the other seeds boring into his back, and the Prince-Consort cast an inquisitive glance towards his wife. Gaemon removed his helmet, and knelt before the Queen.

"How might I serve, your Grace?" He asked. _What could she possibly want with me?_ His heart had begun to race, considering the implications.

"Certain rumors have come to my attention concerning claims you made in the past regarding your patronage. Is it true that you have claimed to be the natural son of my Prince-Consort? I have also been told that you hold proof of your claims. I would see it."

Gaemon's heart dropped. _Did Baela tell her? This could mean my death!_ Struggling to keep himself from shaking, he pulled the leather string hanging from his neck out from under his armor and gorget. He held it upside-down over his open hand, allowing the golden dragon bearing the visage of the Queen's own father to fall into his palm.

"My Queen… the rumors you have heard are true. I have claimed that the Prince was my father. I was told from a young age that my mother lay with him years ago, and that he gave her this dragon in recompense. As a boy in my village it gave me great pride to…"

"Enough! I will hear no more of these calumnies. I could have your tongue out or your head struck off for uttering such words." Hissed the Queen. She turned to her consort. "What say you? Do these words hold any truth?"

Gaemon swore he saw a brief flash of recognition dance behind the eyes of the Rogue Prince. His face quickly changed into a sardonic grin, however. "My dear Queen, are you asking me to have kept track of every maiden I deflowered over the years? For if so, I believe that would be quite impossible. Are the boy's words true? Mayhaps. But he could have easily found or stolen such a coin."

The Queen studied her consort's face, before turning to Gaemon's once more. Her indignance had subsided, replaced with a look of calculation. Her face softening, she spoke: "I have not forgotten that you returned my youngest child to me." She sighed. "I will hear no more of this, from any of you. I will show mercy this once, for your service rendered unto me, and your future services rendered. Guards, see my dragonriders from the hall to their new quarters in the Dragonpit." Turning, she allowed herself to be led behind the throne, where a door to her chambers existed.

Gaemon stood, and allowed himself to be led into the night. He was stunned, and his mind was racing. None of the scenarios in his mind had gone like this. _I somehow always thought he'd claim me. Instead, he turned his back on me._ His armored fists clenched. _If the Rogue Prince has no use for me, then I have no use for him. I will shape my own destiny from without his shadow_. He exited the great hall, emerging into the courtyard with the other seeds. The wind carried the smell of ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well hello again, fancy meeting you here! Thanks for reading this chapter. Things are really starting to heat up for Rhaenyra and her dragonseeds, and a decisive move has been made. Divergences have already occurred within this timeline due to the presence of two additional seeds, but some events mirror the original Dance. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and am eager to hear what you think might be coming next. Lastly, All Hail Rhaenyra, First of Her Name. Long May She Reign!


	12. Gyles II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you everyone for your continued support of this story! We appreciate all of the feedback, and find it a great inspiration as the story continues. If you have any thoughts or comments, we encourage you to post them.

**Gyles II**

_Life in King's Landing is nothing if not interesting_. Gyles had been beginning to despair of his circumstances. The state of the city he was living in had grown stagnant, and from what he could gather in terms of information, it had been for some time. He had been rejected out of hand by the guards at the Red Keep's gate when he had requested an audience with the King, and Gyles knew better than to try again. King Aegon, the Second of his name, drew much of his support in the war from Lords within regions that hated Dornishman the most, Stormlanders and Reachmen. Gyles had learned much and more of what Lord supported which claimant during his time in the city, and King Aegon certainly seemed to be surrounded by men who felt that the only good type of Dornishman was a dead one.

 _I was lucky that I have such a small presence in this city that I'm not even considered as a possible threat._ After the murder of King Aegon's eldest son, it seemed that the security of the royal family was of the utmost importance. Gyles knew that garnering too much attention for the wrong reasons would be a very effective way to get himself imprisoned, tortured, and killed. It was for that reason that Gyles silently bided his time living and working in the House of Kisses, where throwing the occasional unruly patron out into the street was the most action he was likely to see.

All of that had changed only a week before. At a time when many had feared for their lives, Gyles had finally begun to smell the sweet scent of opportunity in the air once again. _Gyles woke quite suddenly. He had been in the House of Kisses' common room the night before, until it was nearly time for the sun to lighten the city with the arrival of dawn. There had been no problems caused by the patrons that night, and Gyles had been relieved when he was finally able to collapse into his cot. He felt as though his eyes had only been closed for a moment when he felt a hand roughly shaking him. Springing awake, Gyles grabbed a dagger from beneath his straw pillow and turned to face his assailant._

_"Peace, m'lord, tis' only me," Mors said, and Gyles lowered the dagger, sitting up to better see his squire in the dim light of the candle that the man held. The old squire's wrinkled face had the look of well-worn leather, after a lifetime spent under the relentless Dornish sun and in the blustering winds of the Boneway._

_It was then that Gyles noticed the clanging of the bells. "What is happening, Mors?" Gyles was exhausted and confused, and the eerie distant chiming did nothing to smother the growing apprehension inside of him._

" _Dragons, m'lord," the squire grunted. Gyles noticed that the grizzled man was trembling slightly._

_Gyles felt as though a pit had opened in his stomach. "How many?" he asked gravely, repeating himself when it became clear that his squire hadn't heard his words as the man cast fearful glances around Gyles' quarters._

_Mors looked back to him. "Enough to burn this whole city to ash, m'lord," the squire began, "enough to make King's Landing burn hotter than the Seventh Hell." It was at that moment that Gyles heard panicked footsteps descending the stairs into the cellar of the House of Kisses, where foodstuffs were kept and the guards' quarters were located. Gyles could hear fearful voices and sobbing. Gyles leapt from his cot and dressed as quickly as he could, pulling on his sand-colored silk doublet with the black portcullis sigil of his House stitched into it. Dragging his leather boots onto his feet with shaking hands, Gyles stamped them into place as he crossed his quarters to its thin wooden door. If Gyles was to die, he would burn to death with his sword in hand, rather than suffocate in the cramped cellar of the House of Kisses._

_He paused for a moment in the doorway of his quarters as he buckled his sword belt into place. Gyles didn't bother with any of his armor. He knew it would not save him from dragonflame. In the shadows, several whores clutched candles as they all cowered as far from the stairs as they could. Gyles saw Sylvenna Sand crouched in front of Essie by a musty wine barrel, seemingly trying to console the terrified woman as she clutched her weeping son to her breast._

_Gyles made his way over to her, with Mors following close behind. Sylvenna turned to face them. Her dark eyes glinted in the light of the candle that Gyles' squire still held. "Ser Gyles Yronwood," the Dornishwoman said. Her voice was tight, but aside from that she showed no other signs of fear. The Dornish knew of the wrath of dragons better than any from the stories they had been told as children, and it seemed that Gyles, Mors, and Sylvenna faced their impending doom with more of a sense of resignation than the hysteria that surrounded them._

" _Sylvenna Sand," Gyles began, "I mean to head out into the street above and try to make sense of the current situation. It seems that no burning has yet begun as we speak, so mayhaps there is hope for the people of this city yet. You are welcome to join me if you wish." The Dornishwoman hesitated for a moment, but then gave Gyles a quick nod._

_Turning back to Essie, she gave the woman a strong embrace. "Wait for me here," Sylvenna whispered to her, and Essie nodded numbly, still clutching her son tightly. Sylvenna rose and smoothed her silken dress, giving Gyles a curt nod. The bells of the city continued to toll as the three Dornish exiles ascended the stairs._

The Street of Sisters was one of the longest and largest thoroughfares in the city of King's Landing. It was always crowded, but it seemed to Gyles that it only came truly alive as night fell over the city. It connected the Hills of Visenya and Rhaenys together, and one could take many side streets and wynds from the main street to practically any other part of the city. The sun was low in the evening sky, hidden from Gyles' view behind looming rooftops, but still providing enough dim golden light that lanterns and torches had not yet been lit.

Gyles had not brought much clothing with him on his journey north from Dorne, only what he had packed for the wedding at Wyl that felt as though it had occurred a lifetime ago. He had been able to get his garments washed not long after reaching the city, but by the way his doublets had begun to stink of long-dried sweat, he supposed it was about time for them to be washed again. He was, after all, wearing his best silk doublet this evening, and would need it to be clean if he was to ever be given an opportunity to present himself in court.

Gyles thought that he was riding far enough back that he would not be noticed by the three riders further down the street, descending the Hill of Rhaenys. It would not do for him to be caught too obviously trailing them. Though it had been only about a week since Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen's forces had taken the city, the small amounts of initial unrest had been thoroughly stamped out. The fears of only a week before had given way to the concerns of daily life for the people of the city. Mors was working as a guard at the House of Kisses for the night, and Gyles assumed Sylvenna would be finding patrons of her own soon enough. _The city is ruled by a new monarch and court, but the cityfolk carry on as they always have._ As he meandered Evenfall through the throngs of people in the street, Gyles thought back to the morning full of clanging bells and dragons.

_The common room of the House of Kisses was completely empty as Gyles, Mors, and Sylvenna crossed its breadth to the main door of the establishment. The doors were of strong oak, with handles of brass fashioned to look like a plump set of lips puckered for a kiss. Grabbing the handles, Gyles pushed open the doors and stepped outside. Mors and Sylvenna followed on his heels into the street, still damp and slick from the recent rainfall. The sky was dark and grey, leaving everything in shadow even though dawn had long since come and gone._

_Hearing a roar above, Gyles looked quickly to the sky. For a brief moment, everything around Gyles was illuminated by a terrifying green light as a massive black dragon shot a great gout of green flame into the air above itself. Gyles almost lost his nerve at that moment, but forced himself to stand firm as the black dragon and a second silvery one descended towards the square at the top of Visenya's Hill. The two dragons descended in a lazy circle, and as they did so, other brave souls joined Gyles, Mors, and Sylvenna as they walked towards the square._

_The three of them stood near the front of the gathering crowd as both dragons landed in the center of the square, and Gyles watched as the rider of the black dragon unchained himself from his saddle and dismounted his fearsome mount, pulling out a rolled parchment from a leather pouch on his belt. Opening it, the dragon rider began to speak. Though his voice was muffled by his helm, Gyles was able to understand the important parts. King's Landing had a new monarch, and she meant her new subjects no harm. The dragon rider found a crier to take and continue to spread his message before climbing back atop his mount and flying away, followed by the other dragon that had accompanied him. Both riders looked almost comical atop their dragons as both were much smaller than the mounts that they rode._

_Having finally seen a dragon, Gyles understood why his family back in Dorne spoke of them with such fear and respect. Such fearsome creatures had been the terror of Dorne's skies many times since the first Aegon and his sister-wives had conquered the rest of Westeros. Though Dorne had claimed the life of one and its rider, they had paid dearly for it. Dorne had burned, and Yronwood castle was by no means spared. Every time war came with the dragon Kings, their dragons did too. As Gyles re-entered the House of Kisses, his mind was made up. The Gods had seen fit to give him another chance at success, and he would not fail._

* * *

Gyles had discovered that some of Queen Rhaenyra's dragon riders were not official members of the Targaryen family, though they clearly shared some of her blood. Even in Dorne, it was known that none without the blood of the dragon had ever succeeded in taming and riding one. These dragon riders outside of the Royal family were known as dragonseeds, and Gyles knew that they would be his best chance at a place in court. They weren't Lords, and as far as Gyles knew, they held no lands, but only a fool would think that they didn't wield at least some influence as riders of dragons. _And they have been spending time out in the city, enjoying the perks that being a dragon rider associated with the Queen brings_.

It was for that reason that Gyles was following three of the dragonseeds as they rode further ahead. He had spent much of the early evening at the top of the Hill of Rhaenys, doing his best to look occupied by absolutely nothing as he watched and waited. The seeds had been quartered in the Dragonpit, and the chatter throughout the city had quickly informed Gyles that they all ventured out in the evenings to enjoy what King's Landing had to offer. Sylvenna Sand had told Gyles that two of the dragonseeds had gone out to brothels on the Street of Silk nearly every evening since the city had been taken, and that another three had made a habit of visiting different taverns along the Hill of Rhaenys to make merry.

Gyles expected that the two on the Street of Silk would not take kindly to being detoured by attempts at conversation by Gyles, so he had made it his mission to ingratiate himself with the other three during one of their tavern visits. Gyles cursed silently to himself as he nearly rode past the building where the three dragonseeds had stopped their horses. Handing off their mounts to bowing and scraping stable boys, they entered the structure. Gyles hadn't gotten a truly good look at any of the three, but he supposed he got a good enough look at their backs that he would be able to identify them inside the tavern.

Dismounting Evenfall, he waved over another stable boy. Many people had begun to enter the tavern in the wake of the three dragonseeds, but Gyles was able to get Evenfall tended to quickly because of his clearly knightly appearance, dressed in his best sand-colored doublet with the black portcullis sigil of House Yronwood, as well as his mail and sword. Though the mail was slightly uncomfortable to sit in, Gyles wasn't fool enough to venture out into the streets of King's Landing completely unarmored. Handing the stableboy a copper Shield from his own purse, Gyles walked into the tavern with as confident an air as he could muster.

Stepping inside, Gyles saw to his own slight chagrin that he needn't have bothered with such a dramatic entrance. All eyes in the tavern were on three individuals sitting around a table in its center. The three of them all wore black clothing with accents of red, clearly marking them as members of the Queen's retinue. They had all just been served tankards brimming with ale by a serving girl who was all smiles and giggles. The majority of the people in the tavern's common room around them showed enough courtesy as to not crowd around too much, but it was clear to Gyles by overhearing some of their half-hearted conversation that their attention was truly on the three dragonseeds.

 _It seems that I'm not the only one who sees the opportunity that they leave in their wake_ , Gyles thought with a small grin. Walking to the bar, he bought himself a tankard of ale, and sat himself in one of the few seats remaining along it. Sipping his ale, Gyles sat as comfortably as he could and waited for his opportunity. When the three dragonseeds were brought steaming meat pies from the kitchens, Gyles ordered one as well, expecting that they would remain for a while yet. They laughed, drank, and ate, and then drank some more. Gyles did the same, never feeling as though he had quite the right opportunity to approach them. Whenever he resolved himself to do so, some other knight or merchant did, all smiles and compliments.

As the night dragged on, Gyles spent some time observing the Queen's dragonriders as he continued to drink. One of them was a young man that Gyles reckoned had only a few less namedays than him, with auburn hair and green eyes that seemed to glitter and flash with every jape and comment that he made. The second was a thin girl with brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes, who with a crooked grin cursed foully enough to make even a grizzled sellsword blush. The third was a very large man about the same age as the other two dragonseeds, with brown hair and blue-grey eyes. He seemed much more reserved than the other two, but still he smiled and occasionally chuckled as the night continued. None of three seemed to bear any resemblance to the otherworldly beauty of the descendants of Valyria that Gyles had heard of, lacking any hint of silver in their hair or purple in their eyes. _Seven Hells, I look more the dragonlord with my blond hair and violet eyes than they do_.

Watching a small group of knights push open the tavern doors and step outside, Gyles could see that the world beyond was black with night. _Enough. You haven't been spending what's left of your coin in this tavern to sit and watch them._ Gyles rose from his chair, half-full tankard still in hand, and made to approach their table. He took a moment to steady himself as he swayed slightly. _Perhaps I drank more than I expected to_. Walking slowly, he crossed the common room towards their table.

Gyles wanted to curse in frustration as he saw another man approaching the table of the dragonseeds. The three had received so many visitors throughout the night that they barely took any notice of the two of them approaching. _That man looks remarkably shabby for a tavern of this status_ , Gyles thought to himself. The tavern was not far from the top of the Hill of Rhaenys, and was therefore of a much greater quality and expense than those located towards the bottom. The other man walked quickly, and approached the large brown-haired dragonseed directly from behind.

Gyles saw a dull flash of steel as the man drew a rusty knife from his sleeve and arced his arm high, preparing to plunge the blade down on the unsuspecting dragonseed that sat with his back to him. The other two seeds' faces contorted into expressions of shock, and Gyles heard a woman somewhere else in the common room scream. Gyles' reaction was instantaneous. He flung the contents of his tankard into the man's face, blinding him. He cursed and spluttered as Gyles dove into him, sending them both sprawling. As he fell, Gyles struck the side of his head on a chair, and stars exploded in his vision as his already ale-addled mind tried to recover from the tumble he'd taken.

Blinking, Gyles saw that the catspaw had recovered first, mopping the ale from his eyes with a frayed sleeve. The man lunged at Gyles with his dagger, but Gyles managed to catch his wrist, before delivering a swift punch between the man's eyes. The man flopped backwards, flailing his dagger in front of himself. Batting the man's arm aside, Gyles drew a sharp steel dirk of his own and plunged it into his gut.

The man cried out, and his whole body convulsed. He dropped his dagger as Gyles leaned in close. "Who sent you?!" Gyles shouted, and when the man didn't answer, he pulled the dirk from his belly and plunged it into his heart. The man screamed before shuddering violently and going completely limp. Pulling his dirk from the man's chest, Gyles wiped it off on the catspaw's tattered cloak before sheathing it. Nearly all in the tavern were on their feet and shouting, and Gyles saw several people running through the door of the tavern into the night. _Mayhaps one of them will fetch the Gold Cloaks, but methinks most are trying to avoid any potential trouble_.

Pushing himself up to one knee, Gyles placed a hand on a chair to steady himself. The effects of the ale had quickly worn off in the brief but brutal melee, but Gyles' head was throbbing where he had struck it as he fell. Looking up, Gyles saw that the tall brown-haired dragonseed was standing over him. The man reached his hand down to Gyles, and he gratefully accepted it.

With a small grunt, the man pulled Gyles to his feet. "My thanks, Ser," he began, "if not for your heroic intervention I would have surely been killed." Though he spoke well enough, there was no mistaking the accent of a commoner. _This man likely never stepped foot in a castle before taming a dragon_. The towering seed continued to speak, looking at Gyles with some concern. "I am Ser Maegor, a dragonrider for Her Grace, the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen."

Giving a small smile of his own, and trying not to wince, Gyles inclined his head slightly at the dragonseed's praise. "The pleasure is all mine, Ser Maegor. I am Ser Gyles, of House Yronwood of Yronwood. Only cravens and cutthroats attack their foes from behind, and it appears that this catspaw was both." Hearing the doors of the tavern open, Gyles saw several Gold Cloaks enter the building.

Crossing the room, one of them kicked the catspaw in the side, grunting quietly when the man showed no signs of rising. "This'n is dead for certain." Turning to the three dragonseeds, he bowed. "The folk outside explained to us what happened, Sers. We'll handle this rat from here." The Gold Cloak gave a quick whistle, and two of his comrades lifted the body from the floor, carrying it through the door of the tavern.

Ser Maegor nodded at the other two seeds, who were assuaging the panic of the tavern keeper and assuring him that they would not report him or his establishment to the Queen. "If you'd like to accompany us outside, Ser Gyles Yronwood, I'll introduce you to my comrades." Gyles nodded quickly, wincing at how the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his head. He followed Ser Maegor into the street outside the tavern.

Walking to the small stable against the side of the structure, Gyles and Ser Maegor were quickly joined by the other two dragonseeds. At this hour of the night, only the four of them stood within the stables. "Ser Gyles Yronwood, meet two of Queen Rhaenyra's other dragonseeds, Ser Gaemon and Lady Nettles."

The red-haired seed, Ser Gaemon, nodded in respect at Gyles. "My thanks, Ser Gyles Yronwood. We are fortunate that you intervened on behalf of Ser Maegor. None of us expected such an attempt to be made on any of our lives."

The girl Nettles snorted, looking at the three knights standing around her with a grim expression. "We should all have seen this coming. I didn't think that the Sot had the fucking stones to try something like this, though." She merely rolled her eyes when Ser Maegor cleared his throat and gave her a pointed glare. _It seems she said something that he thought I should not have been privy to_.

Ser Gaemon grinned sardonically. "A few drops of ale and she's already running her mouth." He laughed when Nettles scoffed at him, holding up his hands in a mollifying gesture.

Ser Maegor had a small grin on his face as he watched the interaction between the other two dragonseeds, but quickly turned back to face Gyles with a much more serious expression. "My apologies, Ser. Make no mistake, I am in your debt for saving my life. Though I'm not a nobleman, and have only a small stipend from the Queen as one of her dragonriders, I will happily do what I can to repay the debt I owe." Gyles felt the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the dragonseed spoke. _My chance has finally arrived_.

* * *

The morning air was brisk and cool as Gyles ascended Aegon's High Hill on Evenfall. At his side rode Ser Maegor, and a short distance behind them was Mors on his spotted rounsey. Having spent nearly his whole life in the saddle, Gyles was a very skilled rider, and he felt as though he had an eye for the horse-riding skills of others. Though Ser Maegor was a dragonrider, it seemed to Gyles that he likely was more comfortable and confident on his dragon than the powerful gelding that he currently rode.

 _By the way he clutches his reins, it seems that the poor man is half-terrified that his mount will throw him at any moment_. Many Dornishmen prided themselves on their eye for horseflesh, with the breeding and riding of sand steeds being a valued and cherished pastime south of the Red Mountains. Geldings were much less aggressive than stallions, and far easier to train and ride.

Though Ser Maegor rode a warhorse, Gyles could tell that it seemed to be a quite placid creature, with none of the tempestuous spirit and fire that had initially drawn Gyles to his own sand steed stallion, Evenfall. _It is likely that Ser Maegor was given that mount for a reason_. From what Gyles had observed, the dragonseeds were of lowborn or bastard birth, and therefore had little to no experience with more lordly activities like horseback riding. _It wouldn't do for the Queen's dragonriders to be falling from their horses into the dirt, so they've been given some of the most well-trained and calm horses from the royal stables_.

The Red Keep's main gates loomed above the three men as they reached and crossed the cobbled square at the crest of Aegon's High Hill. There was lots of activity within the square, made up mostly of Gold Cloaks keeping watch, as well as various knights, sellswords, and other individuals desperate for an audience within the walls of the castle itself. _With a new Queen ruling from the Red Keep, many are desperate to swear their swords and win her favor_. Gyles didn't blame them. _I'm one of them, after all_. Swearing your sword to a monarch in a time of crisis meant that you would be liable to receive great boons from them when the crisis ended, as the monarch expressed their gratitude to all of their leal servants.

 _Or your head ends up on a spike for fighting for the losing side_ , Gyles thought as he regarded several heads atop black iron spikes between the gatehouse crenels. Gyles knew that one of them belonged to the uncle of the usurper Aegon, a Hightower who had been second-in-command of the City Watch of King's Landing. According to rumors, he had been killed by his own commander as the city fell and the Gold Cloaks went over to the Queen and her husband, the Prince-consort Daemon. The other heads belonged to the City Watch gate captains who had been appointed by the usurper, and were similarly killed by their own men.

Reaching the raised massive bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep, Gyles, Ser Maegor, and Mors reined in their mounts as a knight and several Gold Cloaks approached them. Inclining his head in respect at Ser Maegor, the knight began to speak. "Well met, Ser. How can I be of service?"

Nodding in the direction of Gyles and Mors, Maegor responded to the knight. "This knight that I am escorting, Ser Gyles Yronwood, saved my life the night previous when a catspaw attempted to murder me. He wishes to swear his sword to the Queen's service, and I am here to vouch for him personally."

The knight considered Maegor's words for a moment, before nodding and stepping aside, motioning for the Gold Cloaks with him to do the same. "Go right ahead then, Sers. The stableboys beyond the gate will see to your mounts." Thanking the knight, Ser Maegor rode beneath the Red Keep's gate, and Gyles and Mors followed closely behind.

As he passed beneath the bronze portcullis, Gyles felt a sense of elation. _I've finally made it_. As they handed off their mounts to several stableboys, a steward in black and red livery made his way over to the trio, bowing deeply. "If you'll follow me, Sers, I will take you to the Queen. She is currently holding court from the throne room." Gyles and Ser Maegor followed in the wake of the servant, who managed to walk in a hurry without losing an ounce of decorum or exquisite etiquette. So lost was Gyles in his own anticipation and jubilation, that the halls and stairways he was led through all seemed to pass by in a blur.

It almost came as a surprise to him when he rounded a corner and was suddenly faced with giant doors of bronze and oak. They were closed, and a sizable group of men was gathered before them. Some wore doublets and armor like Gyles, while others were dressed much more simply, in jerkins and ringmail. _It seems I am only one out of many here to swear themselves to the Queen's cause_.

Looking at all of the different sigils on the doublets of the knights before the doors, Gyles saw a multitude of different animals, objects, and other shapes. Some of the knights like Gyles had the look of men of noble birth, with high-quality plate armor that gleamed in the dim light of the corridor. Others were clearly hedge knights, wearing armor that was tarnished and dented from a life spent on the road.

Turning to face Gyles, Ser Maegor, and Mors, the steward bowed deeply. Nodding at Gyles, he gestured to the group of knights and other swords lining up before the doors to the throne room. "Those swearing directly to the Queen's service are to line up there. Their own attendants and sworn men, as well as observers, are to wait until the main group enters, before filing into the wings of the Great Hall to watch." Nodding, Ser Maegor and Mors stepped back to join a much larger pool of attendants, squires, and other courtiers wishing to observe the ceremony.

Striding up to the line in front of the doors, Gyles cleared his throat to get the attention of a frazzled-looking herald in black and red who was determining which man would stand where in the procession, asking each for his name and place of origin. The man turned to Gyles and looked him over quickly. The herald clearly recognized his sigil, based on the way that his mouth fell open briefly in shock before he schooled his face into a neutral expression. "Am I correct that you are an Yronwood of Dorne, Ser?" the man asked.

Gyles saw the other men in the line eyeing him critically as he responded to the herald. "That is correct, my good man. I am Ser Gyles Yronwood, from Yronwood in Dorne." Gyles heard several indistinct mutters and exclamations at his proclamation. _A Dornishman is the last person that they'd expect to be fighting for either side, much less for the royal family_. The herald considered Gyles for a moment, before gesturing for him to take a place towards the middle of the line.

Gyles had not been expecting to lead the group, but his placement in the line shocked him. _It appears that I've been placed just before the hedge knights and sellswords_. Gyles was not vain enough to expect to lead the procession, for surely there were knights from powerful Houses within the dragon kings' own realm that would receive the honor of standing in such a place. He was surprised, however, to be placed behind knights that had the look of younger sons of minor landed knights. _The herald recognized the sigil of my House, which means he knows how powerful the Yronwoods are in Dorne_. Despite that, Gyles had been placed behind any man who had even a hint of a family name, surely many of whom belonged to Houses of far less prestige and status as House Yronwood.

 _They mean to slight me. My House has ruled from their castle since the Dawn Age, yet they place me just before hedge knights and sellswords_. Gyles could feel the rage growing within himself. _To simply be allowed entrance to the castle, I had to save the life of one of the Queen's dragonriders. Even now, they mean to make a jape of the Dornishman. Nothing I do is enough to make these damn people treat me with any respect._ Gyles was pulled from his thoughts as the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and he forced the anger and frustration deep within himself. _They can try to slight me however they wish. Nothing they do will keep me from being the soul of chivalry and etiquette when it is my turn to swear to the Queen._

Gyles stood tall and proud as each man ahead of him was announced, at which point they would move forward from the line to kneel before the Iron Throne. _And what a throne it is_. Gyles had heard rumors of the seat sat by the dragon kings, forged from the swords of the warriors of the kingdoms that they conquered. _I wouldn't find any Dornish swords among them_ , Gyles thought with a grim smile. Perched atop the throne was the Queen herself, Rhaenyra Targaryen. _Now this is an heir of Valyria_. She sat proudly and imperiously in a flowing black dress with patterns of red silk, and its bodice was awash with glittering red rubies. As each man swore to her, she would nod before stating a short few words to accept their fealty.

As the man who had stood just ahead of Gyles finished swearing his sword to the Queen, Gyles felt anticipation roiling in his gut. "Ser Gyles Yronwood, of Yronwood in Dorne!" the herald called, and Gyles strode forward, not feeling nearly as self-assured as he was presenting himself to be. He could feel the eyes of those in the hall boring into him as he approached the throne, and dropped to one knee before it.

Keeping his head low and eyes downcast, Gyles called out the words that he had been rehearsing again and again in his head. "My Queen, my sword is yours, if you will have it. I will be your leal man, if you will have me. I, Ser Gyles Yronwood, do solemnly swear myself to your cause!" Hearing no words of assent after several long moments, Gyles chanced a look up at the Queen on her throne.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen was looking down towards him, with an unreadable expression on her face. Gyles met her gaze, refusing to look away. _I am an Yronwood of Dorne. I will not cringe or cower, even in the face of dragons_. The Queen then began to speak. "Rise, Ser Gyles Yronwood. I am told that you are to thank for the life of one of mine own dragonriders. Since my family has ruled this kingdom, Dorne and its noble families have been an enemy of all in this realm. But you yourself have already proven that you are willing and able to fight for my cause. In these times of uncertainty, a man of proven loyalty is worth his weight in gold. I will gladly accept your sword to my cause."

Stunned, Gyles numbly thanked the Queen for her kindness and praise. He stood and made his way over to the wings of the Great Hall, as the Queen regarded the next kneeling knight before her throne. After a few moments, Mors and Ser Maegor had joined him. Mors merely nodded at him, but Gyles could see the approval in his squire's eyes. Ser Maegor firmly shook Gyles' hand, before whispering quietly. "Congratulations, Ser. I am sure you will prove a great boon to our cause."

Gyles gave the dragonrider a genuine smile. "It should be I thanking you, Ser Maegor. This would not have been possible had you not vouched for me. It is now myself that is in your debt."

The dragonrider grinned back at him. "I shall have to keep that in mind, Ser." With that, the both of them turned back to continue watching the ceremony. _At least Ser Maegor saw my worth, when all others refused to even consider it_. He thought of the vow that he had made, and the commitment that it meant. _Before, I was merely an outsider, an interloper looking in on everything from the exterior_. He thought of the blood that was sure to be shed in his future. _I'm well and truly a part of all of this now. I will live or die beneath the banner of the Dragon Queen._


	13. Maegor III

**Maegor III**

Word from the Riverlands had been scarce since the Queen had taken King's Landing, but Maegor had done his best to keep himself appraised of what had been happening there. Many of the Riverlords had declared for the Queen's cause, but from what Maegor had been told, they were strung out and disorganized. After the sound defeat of the Queen's organized support in the Reach, it was important that her support in the Riverlands not be crushed as well.

Though Lord Jason Lannister himself had been slain fighting at the Red Fork river, his host had remained intact and continued to march despite grievous losses. From the information that eventually reached Maegor's ears, the Westerlands host had fought and won a battle beneath the walls of Acorn Hall, but had lost their commander Ser Adrian Tarbeck only a few days later when he was killed by a hedge knight in a skirmish.

Aside from the Hightower army moving northeast through the Reach, one other great threat remained to the Queen. This was the possibility of Prince Aemond and Ser Criston Cole's army of Crownlands Lords loyal to the usurper Aegon joining forces with the Westermen in the Riverlands. However, that fear had been assuaged when news had reached the city of a great battle that had been fought along the Gods Eye's western shore.

_Gaemon had entered Maegor's chambers within the Dragonpit with a large grin on his face. "What is it?" Maegor had asked, for the grin on his friend's face could have meant many different things._

_"The Westermen are finished, Maegor. The word has been spreading down from the Red Keep all morning! The Riverlords were able to join their forces with an advance party of Northmen, and they forced the Westermen into the lake. Their entire army was destroyed!" Maegor smiled, and felt a sense of relief wash over himself. It seemed that the support that the Queen had gathered to her cause had finally begun to find its footing._

Maegor had never thought that there would be a day when he found a sense of relief in the death of thousands. However, his involvement in this war had changed him. By the conclusion of one battle, Maegor had killed more men than the most seasoned veterans would kill in a lifetime. That fact weighed on him, and at times had laid awake some nights wondering about what becoming a dragonrider had cost him. _I could have just been a fisherman_. It would have been a life without glory, but one that Maegor knew would have made him happy. By taming the Grey Ghost and fighting beneath the Queen's banner, Maegor knew that he had given away a part of himself that he would never get back.

When his self-doubts would begin to grow too strong, however, Maegor reminded himself of what he was fighting for. _By riding the Grey Ghost in battle, I can save the lives of the common people, the people who are just trying to lead a life like the one I used to have._ It was a flaw that Maegor had found existed among the nobility, from the most insignificant landed knights to the Queen herself. _They think of battles to be won and titles to be given, but naught of those who suffer as their armies burn and sack_.

When he had helped to burn the fleet of The Three Daughters in the Gullet, Maegor knew he was saving the lives of those in Spicetown and High Tide by burning the men who intended to sack and destroy their homes. If the Queen were to order him to bring Fire and Blood to her enemies in the Reach or Riverlands, Maegor would do so without hesitation. _If I must have the blood of soldiers on my hands to prevent their predations, I will bear that burden without regrets._ However, if the Queen asked him to burn a village, or a town? Maegor didn't know if he would be able to follow those orders. _I pray that it will never come to that_.

Maegor had been surprised at how quickly the city of King's Landing had fallen to the forces of the Queen. Because of the fact that both he and Gaemon could read, they were each tasked with landing on a different hilltop within the city to proclaim the Queen's occupation of her city and castle. Maegor had landed the Grey Ghost outside the Dragonpit, a great domed monstrosity of a structure. _Even from outside, I could hear the dragons roaring within_. For a city of such a large population, Maegor had been surprised when only a small crowd of the city's populace gathered to hear the proclamation given to Maegor by the Queen. Many feared the flames of Queen Rhaenyra's dragons, and it had taken over a day for most of the city's populace to finally come out from their hiding places.

The sun was bright in the sky as Maegor ascended Aegon's High Hill on the back of his gelding. He'd heard that many knights gave names to their mounts, but Maegor did not plan to give his horse a name. _I already have a mount_. Grey Ghost was the only creature that Maegor ever intended to ride into battle. _The other seeds and I are a different kind of cavalry_. It felt to Maegor as though the ride from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep was beginning to become a habit. Only a short while before, he'd escorted the man who had saved his life, Ser Gyles Yronwood, to the Red Keep to swear fealty to the Queen.

On most other days, it would be Maegor and Gaemon ascending the hill, to spend the better part of the day sparring in the yard with the Queen's knights, continuously working on improving their skills in swordplay. The best instruction that they received was from Ser Lorent Marbrand, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, but more often than not he was attending the Queen, so their sparring sessions with the knight were oft few and brief. It was more common that they would spar with other knights and squires of lesser note within the Keep. Ser Marbrand's own squire, another Westerman by the name of Morgon Banefort, was a skilled youth about Maegor and Gaemon's own age that Maegor spent most of his time sparring with. _I should like to spar with Ser Gyles as well_. Maegor wondered if Dornish knights fought differently than knights from elsewhere in Westeros.

After he rode beneath the massive bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep, Maegor was able to quickly hand off his gelding to a stableboy after dismounting. He considered the official but brief summons he and the others had received early that morning in the Dragonpit. Beyond being provided with a time late in the morning that they were expected in the Great Hall, the only other instructions were to be outfitted in the black steel plate armor that had been provided to all of the seeds, save Nettles. She would be wearing her own black leather armor and ringmail. _For whatever she is planning, the Queen expects all of her seeds to be present and in full martial attire_.

The route to the Great Hall had become a familiar one to Maegor, and he strode towards it with purpose, his plate boots clanking in the stone passageways. Maegor had not fully adjusted to the way servants and other common folk in the castle would make way for him, uttering pleasantries and other respectful words while bowing. They were simply performing the proper courtesies that were expected to be given to knights of the Queen, but it still put Maegor slightly ill at ease. _I'm just Maegor_ , he'd want to say as they bowed and made way for him, but he didn't. It would not be right for a dragon rider of the Queen to presume to do away with expected courtly formalities.

Entering the Great Hall through its massive oak-and-bronze doors, Maegor once again found himself stunned at the size and grandeur of the room. At its far end sat the Iron Throne on its raised dais, and golden sunlight shone into and lit the room. It was mostly empty, and Maegor saw that he was the first of the dragonseeds to arrive. The Queen had not yet entered the room and climbed the throne, and it sat empty, its countless swords glinting in the morning sun.

Standing at the foot of the long crimson carpet that ran from the doors of the Great Hall to the foot of the Iron Throne's dais, Maegor allowed himself to imagine for a fleeting moment that it was he who was the monarch. He walked along the carpet's length, watching the Iron Throne grow larger and larger within his vision. _I'm sure that King Maegor walked the length of this hall countless times_ , Maegor thought with a hint of pride, as well as shame. _My great-great-grandsire sat a stolen throne just as the usurper Aegon has, and the realm similarly suffered for it_. Reaching the base of the dais, Maegor stood regarding the steps of the throne for a moment. He realized that his right fist was tightly clenching the hilt of his sheathed sword. Slightly perturbed, he released his grip on his sword's hilt before turning and taking his place to the right of the throne as one of the Queen's dragonriders.

As he stood and waited, Maegor continued to consider his heritage, and the throne that he stood beside. King Maegor was the only child of King Aegon and his sister-wife Visenya, and despite having six wives throughout his life, he did not sire a single living heir on any of them. Maegor had often wondered in silence about the heritage of his own great-grandsire, who claimed to be the bastard of Maegor Targaryen. _Could a man who sired not a single living child from six wives successfully sire a bastard on a common woman?_ Maegor wasn't completely sure, but he also knew that magics of an ancient and unknowable sort existed on the island of Dragonstone.

Maegor had decided long ago that he did not care whether or not people believed he was a descendant of a bastard of King Maegor. _I'd always believed it myself, and that had been enough. After taming the Grey Ghost, I've proved to everyone that I'm the blood of the Dragon_. And his was a different blood than any of the other descendants of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wife Rhaenys. _Mine is the blood of Queen Visenya, the elder sister. With the deaths of my father and brothers, I'm the last of Queen Visenya's line_.

Maegor's thoughts were interrupted by the entry into the Great Hall of two more dragonseeds. Like Maegor, they were similarly dressed in their black plate and winged helms. Ulf White and Hugh Hammer walked the length of the crimson carpet, before taking places to the right of the Iron Throne next to Maegor. Hugh Hammer brushed past Maegor with naught more than a brief cold glance, but Ulf locked eyes with Maegor as he passed. His hazel eyes burned hatefully at Maegor through the slit of his helmet's visor, and Maegor returned a cold blue-grey eyed glare of his own. No words were spoken, but neither Maegor nor Ulf needed to speak to express their hatred for the other.

Frustratingly, Maegor had no evidence against the man. After his conversation with Gaemon and Nettles at the Dragonpit the night that Maegor was almost murdered, he was convinced of the Sot's guilt. _The three had made their way to the massive carved alcove that contained the chained-up Cannibal. The massive black dragon was curled in slumber, and did naught more than regard the three seeds with a cold green-eyed glance as they neared it. They chose to speak near the fearsome creature for they knew it would scare away any possible eavesdroppers. Beyond Gaemon, the Cannibal tolerated the presence of Maegor and Nettles, but hissed threateningly at any other living thing that dared come near it, including Ulf White and Hugh Hammer._

_Maegor was still stunned from his near-brush with death. He had been drinking in the company of friends for hours when he saw the horrified expressions of Gaemon and Nettles. He had realized that they were looking beyond him when shouting and screaming began behind him. It was only due to the quick action of a Dornish knight that Maegor was not stabbed and killed by an assailant that he hadn't even seen. After they'd arrived back at the Dragonpit, Maegor, Gaemon, and Nettles had gathered by the Cannibal to discuss the night's events._

_Leaning against the alcove's curved opening, Nettles had regarded the two seeds standing before her, her brown eyes glinting in the light of the braziers throughout the Dragonpit. "It's too easy to blame the attack on the Greens. I guarantee you that's what Ulf wants everyone to think." She bit her lip, a frustrated expression flitting across her face. "The fucker has us caught too. There's no way for any of us to prove he had something to do with the attack."_

_Gaemon nodded gravely. "For us to imply that he planned the attack only calls our own motives into question." He was clutching the leather pouch around his neck in his right hand tightly, twisting and turning it as he tried to collect his thoughts._

_Maegor turned back to regard Nettles. "It's not to say that I don't agree with you Nettles, but do you think that Ulf would be so bold as to attempt to have another dragonseed murdered by his command?"_

_Nettles nodded without hesitation, with an uncharacteristically serious expression on her face. "I do think so. Both the Sot and that aurochs Hugh Hammer have nursed grudges against you and Gaemon since the fight over the Gullet. The two of you were heroes, the saviors of Spicetown and High Tide, not to mention rescuing the Prince Viserys and returning him to his mother with a dragon hatchling. What did the rest of us do?" Nettles' mouth twisted bitterly as she continued. "We watched as the Prince of Dragonstone plunged into the sea and was killed. We burned much of the Triarchy's fleet, to be sure, but we couldn't even protect the Prince who gave us all the chance to master dragons." Nettles sighed, and after a moment, a bit of a wry grin returned to her face, and she nodded at Maegor. "Of course, it also didn't help that you beat Ulf senseless in the training yard. Twas' about time for someone to shut that drunken shit's mouth up, I say."_

_Maegor smiled at Nettles' statement, and inclined his head at her in acknowledgement of her praise. "When you put it all that way, I suppose it makes more sense." Maegor frowned as he considered his situation. Ulf the White seemed to be out for his blood, and the only thing that Maegor could do was watch out for any other catspaws that the seed would send against him. For a brief moment, Maegor wondered whether he would be able to find someone to kill Ulf. As quickly as the thought came to him, however, Maegor forced it from his mind. He would not stoop to that hateful drunkard's level by sending assassins after him._

_Gaemon began to speak suddenly, and both Nettles and Maegor turned to face him. "It seems that you're not the only person that Ulf has tried to have killed, Maegor." His friend continued as Maegor waited expectantly, and Nettles silently raised an eyebrow. "I had been wondering as to who had told the Queen about my claims of paternity. After I arrived at the castle on Cannibal, I spoke to no-one of who I believed my father to be. Yet somehow, someone who either had direct access to the Queen, or knew someone who did, let slip to her my claims of parentage." Maegor's friend frowned. "It now seems all too clear. What better way for the Sot to rid himself of a rival for the Queen's favor than to have the Queen herself execute him?"_

_Maegor, Nettles, and Gaemon stood in silence for several moments. It seemed that Ulf the White was actively trying to arrange for the downfall of both Maegor and Gaemon, but even they themselves had no way of knowing if that was the complete truth. "So what do we do now?" Maegor asked. No-one had an answer for him._

As he had stood deep in thought, the Great Hall had become filled with people. Gaemon, Nettles, and Addam Velaryon had joined the line of seeds beside the Iron Throne, and the massive doors at the end of the Great Hall were shut a few moments before the Queen and her husband appeared from the small door behind the throne. The Queen gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to her assembled dragonriders, before she climbed the steps of the Iron Throne and sat at its top. Her Prince-consort Daemon took his place on the first few steps of the Iron Throne.

At a nod from the Queen, her herald announced that the day's court was in session, and the Gold Cloaks stationed throughout the Great Hall beat the butts of their spears on the floor to draw the room to silence. The large doors of the hall were then opened, and a procession of prisoners were led into the room by Gold Cloaks and the new white cloaks that had been appointed by Ser Lorent Marbrand. Out of the six new members of the Queensguard, Maegor recognized only the face of Ser Harrold Darke.

At the head of the group of prisoners was the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, shuffling while fettered at wrist and ankle with golden chains. Behind her came the Princess Helaena. Though the woman had not been confined to the Black Cells like her mother or grandfather, she had the look of someone who had been in the confines of a dungeon cell. Her silver hair was matted and stringy, and her clothes were covered in grime and several stains. Her violet eyes darted in many different directions as she muttered indistinctly. Maegor had not learned of the murder of Princess Helaena's eldest son, the Prince Jaehaerys, until after he had arrived at the city. He was shocked and horrified to learn of the brutal and merciless killing carried out on behalf of the Queen, under the auspices of the side that Maegor fought for.

Maegor had been devastated by the loss of his father and brothers, but he at least had been given the mercy of not having to watch them die. Princess Helaena had been forced to watch as her eldest son, a boy of six, was beheaded before her own eyes. _I'm sorry Princess_ , were the words that Maegor wished he could say to the Princess Helaena. However, he knew that such woefully inadequate sentiments of sympathy from a fisherman's boy would likely mean little and less to her.

Following the Princess Helaena was her grandfather and father to the Queen Dowager, Ser Otto Hightower. Behind him was Ser Tyland Lannister, and then Lord Jasper Wylde. Behind them came two noblemen, one with a doublet bearing three red chevrons on ermine, and the other wearing a green doublet with a white lamb holding a golden goblet. It seemed to Maegor that these were the prisoners of note that Queen Rhaenyra wanted all in her court, including her dragonriders, to bear witness to the judgement of.

The Dowager Queen Alicent was the first to be brought before the Iron Throne and forced to her knees at the foot of its dais. Queen Rhaenyra looked down at her step-mother with scorn, but it was the Dowager Queen who opened her mouth first and began to speak.

"If you mean to order my death, Princess, make it quick. I do not care to hear you speak at length on whatever so-called 'righteous judgement' you have in store for me." The Dowager Queen turned her face up to glare at Queen Rhaenyra in defiance.

The Queen merely laughed bitterly at her step-mother from atop the Iron Throne. "A fate that a cruel and manipulative woman like you undoubtedly deserves, step-mother. However, I have decided to spare your life, for the sake of my father, who loved you once." Waving a hand dismissively, the Queen continued. "Return her to the Black Cells." The Dowager Queen was pulled to her feet, and gave Queen Rhaenyra one last cold glare before being escorted from the Great Hall.

The Queen regarded her half-sister the Princess Helaena with sympathy, and ordered that she be returned to her chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. "She has been punished enough," the Queen remarked sadly as the muttering and incoherent Princess was escorted gently from the Great Hall.

The Queen was not nearly as magnanimous with Ser Otto Hightower or Lord Jasper Wylde, giving cold and succinct orders for each man to be dragged out into the yard and beheaded as traitors to the Realm. Ser Otto merely bowed his head at the Queen's judgement, but raised it again and strode proudly from the Great Hall amongst the guards surrounding him to meet his death. Lord Jasper Wylde stood and addressed the Queen when he received his verdict, however. "I am no traitor, Princess. Everything that I have done as Master of Laws has been to uphold the established laws and precedents of the Realm. By every law in this land, a King's son comes before his daughter in matters of inheritance. I will die a loyal servant to the true ruler of this Realm, King Aegon, the second of his name!"

Queen Rhaenyra looked down at Lord Wylde in a cold fury. "A king's will is the law of his Realm, my Lord, and my father, the King Viserys, first of his name, made me his rightful heir. No amount of precedent can contradict that. Take this traitor from my sight, I wish to hear no more of his poisonous calumnies." With that, Lord Wylde was escorted from the Great Hall, still protesting the Queen's legitimacy as ruler.

Ser Tyland Lannister was spared the headsman's block, but it seemed to Maegor that death would have been a kinder fate for him. In the hopes that he might eventually be 'persuaded' to help recover some of the Crown's treasure, Ser Tyland was handed over to the Queen's torturers, and returned to the Black Cells.

The other two Lords that Maegor had seen earlier, now addressed as "the Lords Rosby and Stokeworth", were brought before the Iron Throne and forced to kneel. Both proclaimed their undying loyalty to the Queen, and assured her that they had only gone over to the usurper's side so that they could live to one day rejoin the true ruler of the Realm, the Queen herself.

The Queen listened to their pleas in stony silence, before giving her own cold answer. "My Lords, it seems to me that faithless friends are worse than foes. I will not suffer your presence at my side, and I will certainly not allow your treason to go unpunished. Lord Stokeworth, your family's words are 'Proud to be Faithful'. I never took you for a jester, but surely you must be, for you treat your family's words as nothing more than a jape."

Lord Stokeworth bowed his head in shame, and Lord Rosby's face went pale as the scowling Queen delivered her verdict. "I shall have you beheaded as traitors to the Realm. But first, I will have both of your lying tongues torn from your mouths. Guards, see that my orders are carried out. I should like to see both of their tongues before I retire this evening."

Lord Stokeworth allowed himself to be escorted quietly from the Great Hall, but Lord Rosby had to be dragged out, kicking and screaming the entire way. There were more prisoners to be judged, and Maegor knew that there would be many more heads adorning the spikes above the Red Keep's main gate before the day was done.

* * *

It felt good to finally be free of his armor. The Queen's judgement of her prisoners had dragged throughout the day into the late afternoon, and Maegor was overjoyed when he was finally given leave to return to the Dragonpit. With the help of a servant, he was able to undo the many clasps and cured leather straps that held the black steel plate in place. He had taken a few moments to simply lay back in his cot and stretch out his limbs, enjoying the lack of restriction in his movements. Hearing a knock at the door, Maegor sat up on his cot and faced the door of his chambers. "Come in," he called, and the door swung open to reveal Gaemon and Nettles.

The two seeds walked into his chambers, with Gaemon leaning against the wall near the doorframe, and Nettles sitting in a chair beside a small desk along the wall opposite Maegor's cot. Gaemon was the first to speak. "We plan to head out again tonight and enjoy the city's hospitality. We must needs remain alert for any more possible threats to the three of us, but I don't plan on letting fear rule over the things that I do or the places that I go."

Nettles nodded in agreement with Gaemon's statement, before cracking a crooked grin and offering her own opinion. "Besides, there's nothing like a good couple o' tankards of ale to help ya make an end to a day of executions!" Gaemon laughed, and Maegor couldn't help but grin at the girl's decidedly morbid sense of humor.

However, Maegor had plans of his own for the evening. "It'll have to just be the two of you tonight. I do not plan to stop at any taverns this evening." Maegor paused, before grinning slyly at the two seeds across from him. "I'm sure the two of you will drink more than enough to make up for my absence."

Nettles grinned back at Maegor, before standing and making her way to the door of his chamber. "Right ya are, _Ser_ Maegor. I've sworn a solemn vow to scandalize as many knights and nobles as I can by getting piss drunk as often as possible." With that, she walked into the hall beyond.

Gaemon hesitated a moment, giving Maegor an inquisitive look, but eventually he shrugged and smiled. "Suit yourself, Maegor. Enjoy whatever plans for the night that you have." His expression turned more serious as he looked back at Maegor from the doorway of his chamber. "Just remember, going it alone means you'll need to pay extra attention to the people and places around you." Maegor nodded at his friend's sage advice, and once again found himself alone in his chambers.

* * *

The roughspun clothing he wore felt more natural to Maegor than any of the silks and soft wools that he had been provided by the Queen's tailors. Maegor found it amusing how much one's clothing could affect their appearance. Wearing roughspun, hardly any gave Maegor a second glance. Aside from his size, Maegor looked much like any of the other common folk walking the streets of the city of King's Landing. _Put most Lords of this Realm in roughspun, and I'd wager that they'd look no different than any other commoner_. If Maegor had the looks of Valyria, blending in would have been a much harder task.

Maegor had given one of the servants in the Dragonpit a silver stag to fetch him clothing that would allow him to blend in with the city's populace. Maegor knew that he was likely giving the servant much more than was necessary, but he saw no need to be stingy with his coin. _Paying him so handsomely ensures that he will be very grateful to me._ One never knew when a friend in the right place could make all the difference. Maegor wore leather boots that were scuffed and muddied, but were well-worn and comfortable to wear. His clothing did not itch too much, which was something that Maegor was grateful for. In trousers and a loose long-sleeved shirt dyed a light green, and a hood dyed a darker green, Maegor supposed he had the look of an apprentice to a craftsman of moderate means.

Maegor had taken one of the lesser oak and iron entrances out of the Dragonpit as he left, hoping that the people milling around at the top of the Hill of Rhaenys wouldn't notice him leaving the structure. The Gold Cloaks and Dragonkeepers assigned to the Dragonpit knew Maegor's face, so he had no fear of being refused entrance when he returned. His ploy had worked, and Maegor decided to descend down the western side of the Hill of Rhaenys.

As he reached the Street of Flour, Maegor breathed out a sigh of relief. Any fears that he'd had of being recognized as one of the Queen's dragonriders had dissipated by the time he was clear of the square at the top of the Hill of Rhaenys. Maegor had never considered how good it would feel to just be _Maegor_ again, not _Ser_ Maegor, or Maegor _the Queen's Dragonrider_. Wonderful scents filled his nose as he walked along the Street of Flour, wafting from the countless bakeries along its length. Many would be closing their doors before the sun finished setting in the evening sky. Stopping at a small stall in front of a bakery, he paid the woman behind it a copper for a small sweet tart.

As he turned to continue, a small scrawny girl called out to Maegor across the street. "Flowers for sale! The sweetest ones you'll ever smell!" Maegor crossed the street towards her, looking around with some concern. _What is a girl her age doing out in the streets all alone_? Back in the village he grew up in on Dragonstone, children around her age weren't allowed far from their mothers' apron strings.

Looking up at Maegor, the girl displayed a battered wicker basket that had several flowers and bulbs inside. "Would ya like one? They're only a copper each."

Maegor smiled kindly at her. "Of course." As he looked into the contents of the basket to pick a flower, Maegor asked the question that was still on his mind. "Girl, where are your parents? Surely they'll be worried about you if you haven't returned by nightfall."

The young girl merely shrugged her shoulders, before turning her face up to regard Maegor with a dirt-stained visage. "Oh no, master. They shan't be worried about me. Ever since my da marched up Duskendale way with the King and was killed, it's just been me and my ma. She's dreadful ill, so I must needs sell these flowers to pay the apothecary. He won't brew her a remedy to make her better until I've the coin to pay for it."

Maegor regarded her for a moment in stunned silence. He was at a loss for words. The girl merely looked at him inquisitively, seemingly confused as to why her tale had elicited such a reaction from him. "Do ya want a flower or not? I must needs go home to check on my ma."

Maegor nodded at the girl, and picked a slightly crumpled and shriveled rose, lifting it from the basket. He then handed the girl a silver stag. She looked at Maegor with wide eyes. "Are ya daft? I said they's was a copper!"

Maegor merely shook his head. "Take it. Go fetch that remedy for your mother from the apothecary." He was surprised when the small girl crossed her arms, curling her lip in annoyance.

"Listen here, master. I am no beggar. That rose isn't worth more than a copper, and no one in this city pays anyone anything unless they mean to get their coin's worth!" Maegor was stunned at the amount of fire that this small girl was now displaying.

He considered a moment, then took two more crumpled flowers from the girl's basket. "I have two friends that I know will appreciate the beauty of these flowers as much as I do. Surely three flowers of such quality are worth a silver stag?" He waited a moment as the girl pursed her lips in consideration, glaring at Maegor suspiciously.

She finally sighed and nodded in agreement, and held out a dirty palm to accept the silver stag from Maegor. "You're not from around here, are ya?" the girl asked, looking at Maegor with traces of confusion still plain on her face.

Maegor smiled down at her. "No I'm not. In fact, I haven't been in this city long at all. Now go, get that remedy for your mother." He turned to continue down the street, but turned once again to regard the girl when she called out to him.

"Wait!" the girl had a sheepish expression on her face. "I'm sorry for gettin' so angry when you offered to help me. It's just that no one has ever done anything like that before for me and my ma. Prithee, what is your name? I wish to tell my ma the name of the man that paid to make her better." She looked at Maegor expectantly.

Maegor thought for a moment. _Should I lie to her? I did not wish to be discovered, but my name is uncommon amongst the smallfolk_. Many commoners named their children for Kings, in the hopes that their children would one day do great deeds like their namesakes. _There's a reason that most folk don't name their babes Maegor. No one wants their child to grow up to be a cruel tyrant_. Maegor made his decision, and called back out to the girl. "My name is Maegor."

The girl looked surprised at his name, but smiled. "Well thankee, Maegor. I'm Rosey, like the flower. I must needs go find the apothecary now!" Still smiling, the girl turned and hurried away, clutching her basket of flowers.

Maegor turned and began to ascend the Hill of Rhaenys, back in the direction of the Dragonpit. He took a bite of the sweet tart that he still clutched in his hand. He thought about Rosey, and the father she had lost fighting beneath the usurper Aegon's banner. _Please, let the Greens see sense_ , Maegor thought, _we have more dragons and the Iron Throne. Let this war end before any more fathers are lost_. Maegor had a feeling that his silent plea would only be answered with more Fire and Blood.


	14. Baela II

**Baela II**

Getting to Moondancer had been easy, once she had convinced Ser Robert Quince that she was going to remain in her chambers for the rest of the evening. _They expected me to grow wroth the moment summons came for Aegon and Viserys, and I did not disappoint_. She had spat something akin to "only cowards and fools would think the war could be won by guarding an abandoned castle" as she threw a goblet at Quince when he forbade her from accompanying her brothers to King's Landing. Baela giggled, despite herself. _Poor Ser Robert really didn't deserve such a harsh lashing, but it had to be done. They'd have otherwise immediately suspected me of plotting my escape._ Instead, they'd gotten what they'd expected: a Lady sulking in her chambers. _It should still be another hour before the ever-suspicious Ser Alfred manages to convince Ser Robert to send someone to check on my chambers_ , she thought to herself with a wolfish grin.

Her brothers had departed Dragonstone's citadel that morning, sailing with several ships from her grandfather's fleet for King's Landing, where Cousin Rhaenyra had begun to consolidate her hold on power on the mainland. _My brothers and father await me there. A dragon doesn't hide or sulk when its brethren take to the skies for war._ She slipped out of the window in her chambers, using a makeshift rope she had crafted from her bedsheets to scale the black-stone walls of the Stone Drum to the tiled roof of a nearby building. As she passed one of the many rooftop draconic gargoyles, she gave it a friendly pat, whispering "mum's the word" and holding her finger to her lips. She was fairly certain it got the message, for it stayed silent.

The castle yard below was silent and dark, for at this hour the servants had been allowed to return to their own quarters, and were likely to be either asleep or enjoying their time to themselves. Moving quickly along the tiled roof, she found the spot she had surveyed earlier, where a wagon had been left beneath the overhang. The wagon and the barrels atop it still stank of the fish that it customarily brought up from the wharves to the citadel every morning. Making sure to stay light on her feet, she gingerly lowered herself from the rooftop to the wagon below, wincing as the boards creaked slightly when she dropped between two of the barrels sitting in the bed. Glancing around to make sure that no one was about, she hopped down onto the cobblestones of the courtyard and made her way quickly towards where Moondancer was chained.

Entering the courtyard, she could see her dragon was curled up asleep, seemingly not having moved since hours earlier when she had taken her for a ride to Driftmark and back. Her first few flights had been exhilarating, and she found herself addicted to the joy she felt as she soared amongst the clouds. _The next time you see me Gaemon, it WILL be on dragonback._ She had first been able to fly upon Moondancer only a week or so after the Queen and the dragonseeds had departed Dragonstone, and despite her triumph, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt as she passed over the waves beneath her. _If only my dragon could have grown a bit faster. I could've flown alongside Jace. Perhaps it'd have made all the difference._

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she brushed a few strands of silver hair from where they hung in front of her eyes. _My hair is growing out again. After I reach King's Landing, I must needs have it cut. I can't have it whipping about as I fly._ She quickly began to undo Moondancer's chains, and the dragon raised its head sleepily to regard her with what she would've sworn was draconic suspicion. It unfurled its pale green wings and flapped them quietly, seemingly relishing the ability to stretch. Glancing at the saddle, she realized it would be far too heavy to carry. She steeled her nerves. _My ancient ancestors most likely flew without saddles, and the seeds had no access to them on their first flights either. I must needs make do the old-fashioned way._ She climbed onto Moondancer's back, using the spines to hold tight, and situated herself between two particularly large ones. She pulled upwards on two pearl colored spikes at the base of the dragon's neck, and it beat its wings forcefully, fighting its way into the night sky. A few moments later, she was hundreds of feet in the air, soaring through the freezing night air. She clutched her furs tightly about her with one hand, using the stars to guide her as she flew towards King's Landing from her memory. Moondancer's pearl crest seemed to glow in the moonlight as they flew, and the only sounds came from the gentle movement of the waves below.

* * *

The rhythmic beat of Moondancer's wings and the quiet caress of the wind on her cheek had almost caused Baela to nod off on several occasions. Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she squinted and forced herself to refocus. When lights danced in the darkness of the horizon, she thought herself witnessing the sunrise. _Except the Sun does not rise in the west_. It had been years since she had been to the capitol, and even by night the city took her breath away. _King's Landing must never truly sleep_ , she thought with awe as she began her descent towards the city below. The city glowed orange and yellow beneath her from the light of thousands of torches, and almost appeared to be alight as she circled Aegon's High Hill and made her final descent towards the largest of the Red Keep's courtyards. Below, Syrax stirred, identifiable from her bright yellow scales. Lifting its mighty scaled head, it roared a greeting, to which Moondancer responded with her own call.

Below, men were scrambling on the battlements, but luckily they appeared to be holding their fire. Internally, Baela cursed herself for not considering how much danger she could have just put herself in. _Without announcing my coming, I could have received a bolt through the heart just as easily as a heartfelt greeting._ Bringing her dragon down gently to rest on the stones of the courtyard, she dismounted, her thighs aching from clinging to her dragon so tightly. Stretching, she turned to face a muscled knight that approached her, flanked by two men in gold cloaks with spears. The knight himself wore a doublet that was half silver and half gold, divided diagonally down its center. He stopped before her, sizing her up with eyes that showed darkly beneath fiery red curls.

"Lady Baela, I presume?" He spoke, breaking the silence. She nodded, smiling. He continued: "We were completely unaware that you had decided to join the court. Next time, I would provide us with a notice. My men only withheld their fire due to my direct intercession. I am sure you're aware that we are fighting a war, and our Queen is not the only claimant with access to dragons."

Baela crossed her arms, and met the man's hardened stare with a look of defiance of her own. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" She asked, mustering her most persuasive and ingratiating tone.

The knight smiled a thin, cold smile, before speaking: "I am Ser Rayford Lothston, my Lady. And I assure you, the pleasure is all mine." Abruptly, he turned on his heel, and began walking briskly toward Maegor's Holdfast. He motioned for her to follow. As he walked, he stated: "I am going to take you to your father. He must needs be informed of his daughter's unexpected arrival."

Crossing the courtyard quickly, they traversed the drawbridge, over the cruel iron spikes of the moat below. Once they'd entered into the cool corridors of the Holdfast, the walls adopted a blood-like color in the torchlight. Winding their way through the passages, they took a stone stairway up, ascending to the second floor. Iron torches ensconced on the walls lit their way. Ser Rayford guided her to a set of lacquered black double doors, carved to resemble dragons roaring at each other. He gave the door in front of him a firm knock, before stepping back.

For a few moments, there was no sound. Despite herself, Baela had begun to grow nervous. _Perhaps I was too hasty in my decision. Others would be punished severely for such a lack of obedience._ She was in the process of reassuring herself that such fears were unfounded when the door opened slightly, revealing Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, and her father. Clad only in loose-fitting black silken pants, his lilac eyes widened in surprise at the group arrayed in front of him. Brushing a silver strand of hair back from his eyes, he crossed the distance between himself and Baela quickly, gathering her up in his muscled arms just as he would have done in her younger years. She found herself giggling with joy (and relief) as she returned his embrace. They paid Ser Rayford and the Gold Cloaks no mind for a few moments, before her father finally pulled back in order to address both his daughter and her escorts.

Suppressing a mischievous grin, Daemon spoke first. "I had not been informed that I would be receiving a visit from one of my beloved Princesses. I certainly would have made sure to be dressed more appropriately." Turning to Ser Rayford, he addressed the knight next. "Ser Lothston, thank you for delivering my daughter to me. I presume you were as surprised by her arrival as I?"

Ser Rayford bobbed his head, his blood red curls glinting in the torchlight. "It was a near thing, my Prince. I ordered my men to withhold their bolts, but the Lady Baela could have very easily been targeted for fear that she was one of the treasonous Princes."

Daemon nodded, his face adopting a concerned expression. "I would guess the Queen has not yet been made aware of my daughter's arrival?" Seeing Lothston's response in the affirmatory, he continued: "let us keep it that way, until morning. The Queen desperately needs her rest, and I wouldn't want to trouble her with such concerns now. The Princes are due to arrive tomorrow, and she will need to be fully prepared in order for Prince Joffrey to be officially instated as heir to the Iron Throne."

Ser Rayford gave her and her father one last glance, before nodding. He motioned for his men to follow him, and they disappeared around the corner from whence they had come, moments before. Turning to face her once more, her father's face was a conflicting mess of emotions.

"Baela, what were you _thinking_? You could have been killed. Aside from that, I have no doubts that the Queen will be incredibly displeased with your disobedience. As I understand it, your presence here represents a direct violation of her orders." He paused, in order to exhale a long, tired sigh. "I suppose that last bit can be addressed in the morning. For now, it is good to see you. Better than good. I have missed you and your sister dearly these past few months." His face brightened as the implications of how she had arrived dawned on him. Taking her hands, he smiled. "Does this mean… has Moondancer reached the point where she can be ridden?"

Beaming, Baela nodded. "Since the Queen departed, she has continued to grow. I was able to fly her for the first time a week or so ago. Since then, I have gradually expanded the distance traveled. Before today, the furthest I flew was Driftmark. I suppose I set myself a new record today." Her father's worry and disappointment had largely dissipated, revealing a face burning with fatherly pride. _How I have missed him_ , she thought to herself.

As they stood speaking, the door had opened a bit wider, revealing a woman with skin as pale as milk, who looked inquisitively at the two of them. She wore a silken night gown that left little of her body to the imagination, and in the torchlight it seemed almost translucent. Her full lips drew back to reveal a beautiful, if somewhat sinister smile. "Who might this be, my Prince?" She asked in a lilting, foreign accent.

Her father's shoulders tensed. Looking over his shoulder, he addressed the woman: "Lady Mysaria, this is my eldest daughter, the Lady Baela Targaryen." Turning back to her, he seemed ashamed. "Dearest, allow me the pleasure of introducing Lady Mysaria of Lys. She… she is a dear friend of mine."

Baela's stomach seemed to drop through the floor. _Father has taken a lover? Why now, of all times?_ She was well aware of the rumors regarding his predilections in his younger years, but she had always believed that he had reigned in his desires during his marriage to her mother and afterwards to the Queen. _Does cousin Rhaenyra know of this? She would be furious, I imagine._ She was at a loss for words, but she managed to force a smile, followed with the words: "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Mysaria."

Her father must have sensed her distress, as he asked for Mysaria to bring him a shirt. She returned with a black silken shirt that must have been intended to match the pants that he was currently wearing. "You must be exhausted, sweetling. Allow me to guide you to the guest chambers. The rooms have been prepared in preparation for the arrival of the Princes, and I am sure none will protest if one is given over to your occupancy." He led her down the hallway in the torchlight, taking a winding stairwell down back to the first floor. Reaching a firm oaken door, he opened it and motioned for her to enter. After she had done so, he stood in the doorway, hesitating. Finally, he spoke. "I'm sure Lady Mysaria came as quite a shock to you. Had I known to expect you, this meeting would have gone much differently, I assure you. For now, focus on getting some rest. After a flight like yours, I am certain you are in need of rest. I will fetch you in the morning to present you to the Queen." With that, he kissed her quickly on her forehead before turning and closing the door behind him.

Baela wasn't sure whether to cry or to rage. _I suppose I should have known that I didn't know everything about my father_. Even so, she felt betrayed. Once more, she found herself wishing her sister were present. _Rhaena was always better at handling things delicately._ She sat back on the four-posted bed, before laying back onto the downy pillows. Despite wishing to resist the urge to sleep, she found herself unable to keep her eyes open. The dark and calming abyss of sleep enveloped her; in her dreamless slumber, she found respite.

* * *

Servants came to awake her only an hour or so after the dawn. She bathed herself, despite their protests, and begrudgingly accepted the new clothing they provided, a dress that was the definition of extravagance. Crafted of black velvet, it had a red three-headed dragon sewn into the bodice, accentuated with small red rubies that glinted in the torchlight. Her family's sigil was bordered by a ring of black pearls sewn into the lining, completing the look. _Father probably suspects the sight of me in a dress might help to placate the Queen; she always did insist my usual attire downplayed my 'womanly beauty'._ She suppressed a scoff. _As if a pretty dress will make my cousin any more forgiving._ She also found herself torn with regards to her father's visitor the night before. Her loyalty to her father was unquestionable, but she couldn't help but feel guilty at concealing his infidelities from the Queen herself. She finally decided against speaking up about it, despite her own personal misgivings.

A few moments later, there was a knock at the door, and a moment later, her father entered. The Prince was dressed in an outfit very similar to her own. _In fact, probably designed to match it. I wonder if there is another dress just like my own hidden somewhere in the keep for Rhaena. These were probably made for when father planned to introduce us to the court._ He gave her an encouraging grin, but to Baela's eyes he seemed uncharacteristically tense. Taking his arm, she allowed him to lead her to her fate.

Walking the stone halls, she was grateful that her father chose to make the journey in relative silence, only uttering that "she looked stunning" and inquiring "how she slept". Beyond their limited exchange of words, she steeled herself for what was to come. _A dragon does not run_ , she thought to herself. As they made their way to the center of the Holdfast, Baela realized they were not heading for the Great Hall. _The Queen means to address me inside the Holdfast. Perhaps she wishes to keep her judgement a private affair._ Eventually, the two of them reached two massive doors, carved and adorned in the same lacquered fashion as the ones of her father's chambers. Servants opened them, and a tall, perfumed servant struck a bronze-footed staff on the floor as they entered.

"Announcing the Lady Baela Targaryen, escorted by her father, the Prince Daemon Targaryen." Baela had to resist the urge to begin fussing with the pearls set in her dress as her father led her into the center of the room. As they approached where the Queen sat, they passed beaten silver mirrors that lined both sides of the hall. Torches were lit along the sides, their light amplified by the mirrors. The opulence was completed by the richly carved panels of wood that were placed in an alternated fashion alongside the mirrors. At the end of the hall sat the high table, and at the center of the table sat Rhaenyra herself, breaking her fast. She appeared to be eating lemon cakes, judging from the powdered sugar that had gathered around her lips. She finished the one she had been eating when they had entered, before brushing its traces from her face gracefully with a black handkerchief.

Judging from the dark circles forming beneath the Queen's eyes, her cousin had not been sleeping well. What shocked her the most was that in attendance to the Queen was the very woman she had seen the night before. Dressed in a black velvet hooded robe lined with blood-red silk, the Lady Mysaria gave her a small smile from beneath her cowl. Also present were the Maester Gerardys, Ser Lorent Marbrand, and her own grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon. Strangely, neither of the Seasnake's grandsons were in attendance, nor were any of the other seeds.

The Queen was the first to break the silence. "How dare you disobey my commands, Baela? Not only did you risk your own death during your landing, but you have sullied my own Royal Authority! How are the most powerful lords of the realm supposed to respect my commands when I cannot even command the obedience of one young _Lady_?" She drew herself up in her chair, as though she awaited an answer.

Her father spoke next. "My daughter has always had your interests at heart, _my beloved_. She flew to court in order to fight for your cause. Moondancer has grown enough to be ridden, and soon can take its place amongst our battle-ready dragons. Besides, she could not bear the agony of being parted from her brothers, the Princes."

"She must needs be punished, Daemon." Rhaenrya hissed. "I've half a mind to chain her Moondancer in the Dragonpit and toss away the key til the end of the war."

Daemon shook his head. "I agree that she should be punished. But imprisoning a battle-ready asset during a war is ill-advised." He paused. "Besides, there is no need for anyone else to know your Royal Authority was spurned. Announce that my daughter has come to attend Prince Joffrey's installment as the Prince of Dragonstone. Such a decree will be accepted by the people, and nothing will seem amiss. When the war is over, and the Usurper and his brothers _appropriately_ chastised, we can decide on an appropriate punishment for my daughter's willfulness."

Rhaenyra's eyes had narrowed as her father spoke, but when he ceased, she remained silent, evidently pondering his advice. _Oh please, please Rhaenyra. Please do not take my Moondancer from me!_ Baela thought, trying her best to keep her panic from showing. Finally, the Queen sighed, and began to speak.

"There is wisdom in your words, Prince-Consort. Your daughter will be announced to court as a guest for Joffrey's installment. Afterwards, she will spend an appropriate amount of time in the city to 'celebrate', as is custom. But after that, _she will_ fly back to Dragonstone, for the remainder of the war. She will be permitted only to fly her dragon if the island itself is threatened. My word on this is final. Another transgression will result in the imprisonment of both her _and_ her mount."

Baela suppressed the desire to sigh with relief. "You have my word that your command will be followed, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra scoffed. "I thought I had your word the last time. This time, I will expect your good behaviour by taking a hostage, as it were. It seems in times such as these only that will produce the desired faithfulness of my subjects."

Rhaenyra's words stung. Before Baela could prepare a response, the Lady Mysaria stepped forward, gracefully taking a position next to the Queen. "Your Grace, it seems that with the limited audience in attendance, now would be an excellent time to address the issue of rewarding your dragonseeds. I submit that we solve this dilemma now, without the court, or the seeds in attendance. We would not want for them to grow discontented at the lack of apparent reward."

Her father nodded. "The Lady Mysaria speaks true. I have given this issue a great deal of thought since we took the city, and I feel we are in an excellent position to reward our servants handsomely _and_ make a statement to the treasonous lords of the Realm." He paused, before continuing. "During my campaign in the Riverlands, only two houses of significance betrayed their oaths to my brother. House Bracken and House Vance of Atranta declared for the Usurper. The other Riverlords quickly quashed their pathetic attempts at rebellion, whilst I took Stone Hedge and Lord Humphrey Bracken hostage. The former heir to Stone Hedge, Ser Amos, had only a daughter before his demise on the battlefield. Similarly, Lord Qarl Vance himself has a daughter of twelve and a son of three."

Daemon ran a hand through his silver hair as he made eye contact with the Queen. "Recently, my Queen, you rightfully struck the heads off of Lords Rosby and Stokeworth. They too have left daughters, older than their young boys. I propose that in the cases of Lords Vance and Bracken that they be sent to the Night's Watch for treason. We can then marry each of the dragonseeds to these girls, thereby punishing their treason and amply rewarding these seeds in one stroke. Perhaps something to the tune of Stone Hedge and the Bracken whelp for the rider of the Cannibal, Atranta and the Vance girl for the rider of Grey Ghost, the Rosby girl for Vermithor's master, and the Stokeworth lass for the rider of Silverwing."

 _Gaemon could be receiving Stone Hedge?_ Baela thought to herself, excited at the prospect. _He'd receive everything he had hoped for and more. A powerful lordship and the hand of a Bracken in marriage is a magnificent reward indeed! I am… happy for him._ She quickly realized that her grandfather had cleared his throat as he was preparing to respond.

"My Queen, the Prince's idea, while a magnanimous gesture towards the seeds, is plagued with problems. Forgive me, Prince Daemon, but you yourself stated that the former Lord Rosby and Stokeworth left sons. House Bracken and House Vance of Atranta each have a sitting Lord. While our precious Queen is her father's true heir, that was made so by decree. Her situation is _unique_. Disinheriting or displacing these Lords and heirs would overturn centuries of law and precedent, and call into question the rights of scores of other lords throughout Westeros whose own claims might be seen as inferior to those of their elder sisters. We cannot risk the loss of our support from our own nobility to reward these seeds so. Dragons are forces of great power, but they ultimately cannot occupy lands, castles, and cities, nor can they be made to pacify them. We'll need swords for that, and thousands of them. I propose instead that the crown reward the seeds with lands of their own. Driftmark has fertile fields and pastures aplenty. For their service, I would be honored to offer Sers Gaemon and Maegor small holdings on Driftmark, and lands could be made available along the Blackwater Rush for Sers Ulf and Hugh. The Lady Nettles will still be promised an ample dowry for when the war is over and she chooses to marry."

Her father's eyes had narrowed. "Traitors deserve to be made to take the Black, or better yet, to decorate spikes along the walls of this keep. They most definitely do _not_ deserve to keep their seats. Besides, House Baratheon only exists due to the custom I described. My proposal does not lack precedent."

Rhaenyra stood. "I'll not have bickering amongst my closest advisors about this any longer. As I'm sure you'll remember from your studies under the Maesters, Prince-Consort, House Durrandon was extinct in the male line. The Houses you intend to marry our seeds into are not. While I am all for punishing traitors, Lord Corlys has the right of it. We simply cannot afford to lose the support of any more of our lords. I hereby decree that holdings will be made available for Sers Maegor and Gaemon on Driftmark, and holdings along the Blackwater Rush will be granted to Sers Ulf and Hugh." The Queen gathered up her dress and walked around the high table. As she approached Baela and her father, the servant beat his staff once more upon the ballroom floor.

"With great pleasure, I announce the arrival of the Prince Joffrey Velaryon, attended by his brothers, the Princes Aegon and Viserys Targaryen." Stunned, Baela whirled around with the rest of those in attendance. Strolling proudly in sea-green and silver silks, Prince Joffrey beamed at his mother.

"Did the court miss my attendance, mother? As I flew towards the keep, I saw my brother's procession up from the Mud Gate. I decided we would wait to surprise you, since it appeared you had matters of _great_ _import_ to discuss."

His brown eyes sparkled with mirth. Baela might as well have been seeing a ghost. _He looks just like Jace._ The Queen shrieked with delight as she hurried across the polished floor of the ballroom, tears running freely down her cheeks. Reaching Prince Joffrey, she buried him and his brothers, who stood shyly to his sides, in a warm embrace. The Prince, despite having grown, struggled to extricate himself, growing red with embarrassment as those in attendance chuckled.

"My sons, my pillars of strength have returned to me. I could not ask for a better present." Rhaenyra positively beamed as she spoke, extolling Prince Joffrey on how he had grown into such a fine young man.

"Have any young maidens in the Vale begun to vie for your favor?" She asked with a mischievous grin, to which the Prince's cheeks grew all the redder. Laughing, the Queen kissed him on the forehead.

"You'll have to tell me all about them. I just hope you've not done anything that would break the sweet daughter of Lord Manderly's heart."

Laughing, she demanded her court attend her as they swept through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, those in attendance growing rapidly. Eventually they reached the drawbridge, from whence it was a short walk to the Great Hall. Despite the Queen's harsh words earlier, Baela was happy for her. _She glows like she did before her father's death, before this accursed war began._ A large crowd had already begun to gather, evidently having been warned in advance that the Queen was to hold court. At the foot of the Iron Throne, the six dragonseeds stood in attention, their black plate gleaming in the morning light streaming in from the Hall's windows. They had removed their helms, and as the Queen entered, they knelt. As she passed, she beckoned them to rise, and as she ascended the stairs of the throne, they rose. Baela stood with her father and brothers in attendance, at the front of the crowd that had gathered. Looking back to Gaemon, she saw his eyes had widened in surprise at her presence. Giving him a wink, she turned her gaze back to Prince Joffrey as his installment ceremony began.

* * *

The ceremony itself had taken longer than expected, as many of those whose attendance was expected had not yet made their way to the keep. When all were finally assembled, the somber ceremony finally began, and her own presence was addressed according to plan. Baela couldn't help but note that the air was decidedly cool. _Joffrey's new title seems to be a poor recompense for the loss of two brothers,_ she thought to herself. When the Septon had finished anointing him, Joffrey had taken his seat on one of the steps of the Iron Throne. From then on, court proceeded as usual. When the time came for the announcement of the seeds' rewards, the court had grown hushed with anticipation. Baela felt for Gaemon. _He does not know it, but his reward pales in comparison to what was originally considered._

As the Queen had proclaimed their rewards, whispers filled the Great Hall. The seeds, who had once again removed their helms, hid their disappointment well, but there was still a perceptible tightness to their features. _It seems they too expected something greater._ After the rewards themselves had been dispersed, the Queen ordered her servants attend her as she descended the steps of the throne. The court dispersed after she had exited, and Gaemon nodded in her direction before turning to exit the hall. He had started a deep discussion with the tall seed who was brown of hair and the short girl who was brown of skin. _I'm sorry, Gaemon. If it had been up to me, the reward would have been much more suitable._ The huge seed and the one that seemed perpetually drunk exited next, and with the Queen gone they barely bothered to conceal the rage contorting their features.

She felt a squeeze on her arm. "I hope to see you later, my daughter." Her father smiled down at her. "For now, I must attend to the Queen and your brothers." Turning, he strolled out of the hall after the Queen and her sons. She found herself unsure of what to do next, seemingly forgotten as the court emptied, leaving her and only a few servants who were tidying up. As she turned to return to Maegor's Holdfast, a servant entered the hall, and glancing around nervously, approached her.

"Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but there's a man who wishes to speak with you. He says he'll pay you a golden dragon if you agree."

Baela smiled, and nodded, allowing the servant to guide her out of the great hall and into the courtyard. They found Gaemon sitting in a small grove of trees in the shadow of the great red curtain walls. Gaemon thanked the servant, paying him a silver stag for his trouble, before turning to face her.

"Where's that dragon I was promised? A lady's time is precious, as you know, and I _certainly_ can't be seen to be frolicking with just anyone."

"I fear you and the Seven must forgive me for committing the sin of telling a lie. I never truly intended to pay such a mighty price." Gaemon said with a grin. "Instead, I've come with an offer that I thought might be of interest. In these past few weeks, I've had the privilege of exploring this city. I suspect that some places I've found would be of interest to you as well. Besides, I am dying to hear just _how_ you were able to convince the Queen to let you come to the city. I seem to remember her orders being quite clear before."

Baela found her cheeks heating up. "I… may have not used persuasion. Think of it more as a surprise, in honor of the Prince's arrival." Pausing, she crossed her arms. "Now before I expire from the sheer anticipation, please do me the favor of sharing this offer of yours."

Gaemon nodded. "Your untimely demise is by no means my intent. I simply wanted to extend you an invitation to explore the city." He paused to chuckle. "Of course, if you are interested, you must needs find some more… elusive attire. As beautiful as you look, I daresay we would not be able to remain unnoticed for very long."

Baela could feel the excitement surge within her. _My own father is famed for walking those very streets below. It would be amazing to see them for myself._ Her decision was made, despite some misgivings, which she quickly stifled. "I accept your offer, noble Ser. Let us go, and see this city. I will even grant you a boon, in thanks. I shall find some Arbor Gold for us to enjoy, as I am certain a wineskin or two can be found lying about. When do we depart?"

Gaemon stroked his chin. "Meet me here the night of Prince Joffrey's celebration feast. Due to the celebrations and the abundance of wine, we should have a few hours after the feast has ended to explore without your absence being noticed."

Baela nodded, her excitement palpable. "It shall be done, noble Ser." She paused, and surveyed the courtyard. In the shade, it appeared that no one was either paying them any attention or was in earshot.

"Thank you for this, Gaemon. You have no idea how much I needed something like this."

She offered him one last smile before turning to hurry back to Maegor's Holdfast. Butterflies danced in her stomach. Thinking over their conversation, she found herself grinning. _Perhaps dresses aren't intolerable all the time. He did say I looked beautiful, after all._ She chided herself for the thought as soon as it arose. _Rhaena would never let me hear the end of it if she could read my mind now._


	15. Gaemon V

**Gaemon V**

The crack of the flail against the side of his helm sent Gaemon stumbling to the right. Cursing, he lunged at Morgon Banefort with his wooden blade, but his opponent was able to dance out of the way of his lunge. Whirling to follow him, he kept his shield out in front of him and planted his feet. His breath was thundering from within his helmet; despite training nearly every day he still found sparring at length to be exhausting. The squire across from him was breathing heavily too, his grey and orange tabard heaving up and down. He was keeping his practice flail aloft, its spiked wooden balls circling his head. They both took a moment to readjust their stances before reengaging. Gaemon had been encouraged by Ser Lorent to wear his plate during sparring, and over time he had realised the wisdom in such advice; he was gradually growing accustomed to the weight and feel of it. Wearing it more often also helped to develop his stamina; if he had trained without it he'd have quickly become exhausted when it came time to wear it for a real fight.

"Come now, _dragonseed_ , I would've thought all that fire in your blood would give you the energy to beat one piddling squire such as myself." Morgon's friendly but mocking tone rang out from underneath his helm.

"One would think that with such an exotic weapon you should have no trouble defeating one of the smallfolk, plate-clad or otherwise." Gaemon responded.

Beads of sweat had dotted his forehead for much of the fight, but recently they had infuriatingly begun to flow down his face, following the paths of least resistance. This had unfortunately meant that the salty sweat had begun to sting his eyes, making it more difficult for him to keep a focused gaze. _I need to end this now. He's got the edge in stamina, due to his greater experience_ , he thought to himself.

Gripping the hilt of his practice sword, he advanced. He feinted a thrust at Morgon's neck, which expectedly caused him to raise his shield to intercept. As he raised his shield, Gaemon threw himself into his opponent, leading with his own shield, hoping to force him off balance. His enemy stumbled, a half step, then a full, but was able to plant his feet. _I've erred_. Gaemon realised his mistake as Morgon put his back into pushing back. While he was physically larger than his enemy, Morgon was stockier, with a lower center of mass and more muscled besides. Gaemon was forced back a step, then another, as he was pushed to the center of the ring. He threw himself into one last shove, buying himself enough time to disengage and set up for an attack, but as he raised his sword, it was knocked from his hands by Morgon's flail.

He was just barely able to intercept the next crack of the flail by hefting his shield, and in the time it bought him, he dived for his training blade. As he reached it, the flail cracked once more across the back of his helm, harder than before.

"The victory goes to Squire Banefort, honorable Sers." Ser Lorent Marbrand had taken the opportunity to step into the ring. Gaemon pounded his fist in the dust.

"Seven hells. For a moment I thought I might actually emerge victorious for once." He sputtered, as he undid the straps beneath his helmet, removing it so that he could drink in the fresh air.

Morgon Banefort chuckled. Extending his hand, he helped Gaemon to his feet. "There is always next time, dragonseed. In the meantime, you really ought to take my offer up to become one of my thralls. I can only imagine what a Hooded King could do with a dragonrider." Banefort strode out of the fighting circle, calling for a pitcher of water.

Ser Lorent remained in the ring, his eyes on Gaemon. "You were not far from victory this time, Gaemon. Try working on outlasting your opponent. You grow aggressive during your bouts, and it often results in your defeat. The longer a fight lasts, the more opportunities will arise for you to learn. Besides, it will help you to develop your stamina. You've made good progress in these last few months. Always remember that every knight, no matter how skilled, began as a novice." He clapped Gaemon on the shoulder before exiting the ring, no doubt seeking his squire to give him tips of his own.

Gaemon finally left the ring. _Ser Lorent is right. I usually press the attack to try and finish my opponent before my lack of experience gets me killed._ He decided in the coming weeks that he would purposefully avoid going on the offensive, in order to see how long he could last. Sitting on a bench, he took a wet cloth from a bucket a servant offered in order to wring it over his head, relishing the cool water trickling down. After he had wiped the sweat from his face, he thanked the young boy, then stood, fastening his steel sword to his belt as he made his way towards the Red Keep's massive gate. With Prince Joffrey's feast due to begin in a few hours, he decided to make his way back to the Dragonpit in order to bathe and dress in something more suitable for the festivities. While some might've been annoyed at having to ride the great distance from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit, he enjoyed it. _The city itself never ceases to amaze._ As he passed under the gateway arch, he stretched. _I think I'll buy an apple on the way back_.

* * *

The Dragonpit was so huge that it could be seen across the entire city. Standing at the base of its massive bronze doors, Gaemon felt little larger than an ant. One of the attendant Dragonkeepers nodded, acknowledging his presence, before opening a small door to the side of the massive gates. There were many smaller doors leading in and out of the Dragonpit, as it would have been hugely inefficient to continuously have to open and close its massive gates to allow passage for visitors. Once inside, Gaemon went about making himself presentable for the feast. After he had done so, he stepped out from his quarters (the dragonseeds had been provided lodging within one of the empty Dragonkeeper barracks) and knocked on the doors of both Maegor and Nettles. Each opened, and their occupants stepped into the hall.

"Couldn't bear to be without my company for one fucking second, eh?" Nettles said as she stepped into the torchlit hall. She had chosen a black silk blouse with red highlights, matched by black leggings that looked to have been made of velvet. The outfit was completed with a pair of supple black leather boots. She appeared to have bathed recently, as her mane of black curls was not as unruly as usual, and she had tied it behind her head.

"You should be well aware by now that your company is simply _enthralling_ my sweet. Especially given that you are capable of making a Lyseni sailor blush every time you open your mouth." He gave her his most innocent smile, which earned an immediate snort.

Maegor had crossed his arms, evidently quite willing to let the exchange continue for his own enjoyment. He too had dressed for the feast, wearing a black doublet with red dragons stitched into its high collar. The look was completed with black trousers, tucked into black boots.

Gaemon broke off his smile, his face contorting into more of a frown. "Before we go, we must needs discuss the ceremony yesterday." He beckoned for them to follow him, and they entered a cool, winding staircase that led them down from their barracks deeper into the Dragonpit, eventually emerging on the ground floor of the cavernous hall. The hall itself smelled perpetually of smoke, and housed fourteen separate gated pens where each individual dragon roosted, chained to its stall. They walked towards the back of the great hall, past the pens of Morghul, Shrykos, and two empty pens before reaching the pen allotted for the Cannibal. Given his dragon's temperament, Gaemon had not been shocked when he was asked to guide his dragon to such an isolated location. _It turned out quite convenient, really. We are never disturbed when we speak here, and the beast himself would be sure to inform me if any strayed too close._

Once inside, he turned to speak. "Yesterday came as quite a surprise to us all, I'd wager. I will not mince words. The rewards we were offered for our services were not acceptable. We are a decisive asset to the Queen, and yet we are offered boons that would disappoint even a hedge knight."

Maegor and Nettles had both begun to frown. Nettles spoke first: "I may be no high born lady, but I don't need much of an education to see how costly this war has become. A promised dowry is nice, but something tells me such promises won't be worth shit if the Queen simply can't afford to pay."

Maegor nodded. "As far as I am aware, the lands we were given do not possess even a small keep, or tower house. If the crown cannot afford to pay a dowry, it certainly will not be able to grant us the funds we'd require to construct seats of our own. I'm sure you both have noticed, but Lord Celtigar's new taxes are highly unpopular with the people of the city. If the crown has been forced to raise taxes so highly, I expect it is in serious straits."

Before Gaemon could respond, the Cannibal raised its head from where it had been resting it under a black leathery wing. Hissing, its eyes glowed a baleful shade of green. _We never receive visitors here_ , he thought to himself. He and the others turned to face the gate, and were shocked to see none other than Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer entering the pen, dressed in red and black doublets like the other seeds. The Cannibal raised its maw, opening its jaws slightly to reveal its razor sharp, jet black teeth. Small green flames danced at the back of its throat. Gaemon placed his hand on its snout to calm it.

Hugh cleared his throat. "We expected to find you here. While we may 'ave 'ad our… disagreements… in the past, I 'ope we can all agree that the bitch 'as really fucked us this time."

Ulf nodded, "We should've been made lords after the Gullet. Each and every fucking one o' us. We've bled for _blessed Rhaenyra_ , and we've naught to show for it but a couple o' gods forsaken pebbles."

Gaemon scowled. _How quickly they seek to emphasize our common cause once it suits them._ He paused, thinking. _They are not wrong about this, however. If our service so far has barely warranted us a reward, then what can we hope to expect at the war's end?_ He felt the familiar embers of rage deep within him. _Besides, the Queen almost had my head struck off, for no reason other than being unwanted kin._

He glanced at the others. Maegor had not yet uttered a word, and a cold, dispassionate look had spread across his features. Nettles' eyes had narrowed, and she had crossed her arms. Ulf looked back and forth between the three of them, his bloodshot hazel eyes darting this way and that.

"If the Prince Jacaerys had been alive, this never would've happened. He was a good lad, honorable and true. He gave us the chance to master dragons. He'd have made sure our loyalty was rewarded _properly_." Ulf practically hissed those last few words, running his hand through his brittle white hair.

"It does no good to lament what lies in the past. It is one thing to whisper our discontent in the shadows, and another entirely to _do something about it_." Maegor crossed his arms as he spoke. His tone was cold, and hard. "We are servants of the Queen. We must needs make do with what we have been given. I am no more pleased about this than any of you, but I fail to see what exactly we can do about it."

Hugh's gravelly voice rumbled out a response: "We are the masters of over 'alf of the Queen's dragons. Eggon the Conqueror didn't ask for the other kings to submit, he took the Seven Kingdoms for himself. There are plenty of lords in the realm who 'ave committed 'igh treason. We should've been given their lordships."

"Fie on that," spat Ulf. "Casterly Rock, Storm's End, and the Hightower should be ours for the taking." His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "I see no reason why anyone should stop us from taking them. Great seats for great lords. And there are no greater lords than _dragonriders_."

Gaemon narrowed his eyes. _To be lord of a seat as storied and powerful as Storm's End would be… magnificent. Orys Baratheon himself was a bastard, after all. And come to think of it, its current Lord has only four daughters…_

He cleared his throat. "So what do you propose we do about this? We stand to gain nothing through betraying the Queen's interests."

Ulf and Hugh's eyes narrowed. Ulf spoke: "nobody said a blessed thing about betraying our _beloved_ Queen's interests. All we ask is that you keep your eyes open for opportunities is all." He cackled. "After all, we small folk ought to stick together. Just because we planted our arses on dragonbacks don't make us any different in the eyes of the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom. We're less than the shit beneath their feet to that lot."

Gaemon looked to Nettles and Maegor. They seemed to be in agreement. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep our options open."

Ulf grinned, and a thin, cruel smile appeared on Hugh's lips. Bowing, Ulf laughed: "Strange times call for strange bedfellows. Until the feast." With that, the two seeds left the enclosure.

The three that remained were silent for a few moments, until Nettles spoke up: "I don't like those two. I don't like them one fucking bit."

* * *

Entering the Great Hall of the Red Keep, he was shocked to see how much preparation had gone into preparing it for the feast. Great black banners hung between the pillars, depicting the three-headed Targaryen family crest. Each of the massive bronze braziers were lit, and cast vast dancing shadows across the hall. Due to the flame, it was surprisingly warm, and he found himself loosening his collar reflexively as the first hints of perspiration began to bead on the back of his neck.

Tables had been arranged in rows down the length of the hall, with the Queen's table set at the base of the Iron Throne, perpendicular to the rest. The mountain of melted blades rose behind it, the flames and shadow dancing along its edges, giving it the appearance of still smoldering. The dragon skulls mounted along the walls also took advantage of this effect. Balerion's skull, the most massive of the dragon skulls in the chamber, had grown to resemble black crystal with age, and the lights of the braziers danced along its teeth, some of which were the size of men. _Judging by its skull, the Black Dread must have been almost twice as large as the Cannibal itself. I hope Vhagar hasn't reached that size._ Gaemon had little desire to face such a beast in combat, even alongside other riders.

As the guests filed in, the seeds were led to a table on the right side of the Queen's own table. Across the hall several great Lords, including Bartimos Celtigar had been seated at the table parallel to the seeds. _Judging by our placement, the Queen is acknowledging our import._ He suppressed a frown. _I'd have preferred a castle to pride of place._ Servants guided him to his own seat, where he was placed between Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. He had to admit to himself internally that he wasn't exactly comfortable with such placement, but quickly forced his apprehension aside. _There may be no love lost between any of us, but neither of them are fools. The chance to work a knife between my ribs isn't worth losing their heads._ Maegor and Nettles were seated across from them. Addam Velaryon was seated, unsurprisingly, at the Queen's table. _How nice it must be to be legitimized,_ Gaemon thought with a smirk. Corlys Velaryon had been seated to the leftmost side of the Queen's table, and from then the order was Addam Velaryon, Baela, Prince Joffrey Velaryon, the Queen, Prince Daemon, Prince Aegon, and Prince Viserys, who somehow had been allowed to bring his hatchling to the feast, curled about his shoulders. _Prince Viserys' dragon has grown a bit since I last laid eyes on it_ , thought Gaemon with a smile. _Soon it will be too large to remain seated atop his shoulders. Someday it will get to return the favor for its master._

After the guests had been seated, those at the Queen's table gracefully took their seats. The Queen herself wore her father Viserys' crown, and it glinted in the firelight. Gaemon's eyes settled next on Baela, who he realized had been watching him from her seat. She smirked before turning to respond to Addam Velaryon, who appeared to be trying to make conversation. Baela, shockingly, had chosen to grace the court by once again wearing a dress, which he thought must have broken some sort of record for her. It was less ostentatious than the one from the day before, but was crafted of black silk, with dragons embroidered in red that seemingly danced up the sleeves. Its plunging neckline was accentuated by a gold necklace she wore, which appeared to be in the design of a three headed dragon, its eyes crafted in rubies. _All in all, she looks, well, beautiful._ He thought to himself. He averted his gaze, hoping that no one of note had noticed his staring.

The hair on the back of his neck raised as Ulf whispered in his ear, the smell of wine gushing from his breath: "Seven hells, what a looker she is, isn't she? I bet if you were to get her out of that dress, everything would stay right where it is. I s'pose I'd prefer to have a little more meat on her, but you can't deny she's still got it where it counts."

Gaemon's fist clenched from where it sat on his knee under the table, but he forced himself to smile. "She… she is beautiful."

"Fie on that. She's bloody gorgeous. Too bad we lot have to keep to the whores of the city. We seeds aren't good enough for _that_." Ulf's eyes narrowed. "Excepting the _golden boy_ of course." He nodded towards Addam, who along with Baela, appeared to be listening to a story told by Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Gaemon frowned, but before he could speak, a servant approached bearing a pitcher of wine. Hugh chuckled, a rumbling sound, before speaking, calling for her to "bring it 'ere". As she filled his goblet, he gave her arse a squeeze, which caused her to jump and squeal slightly. Both Ulf and Hugh found that to be funny, and guffawed.

"Be careful now lass, don't spill any of that wine. You won't like _the Hammer_ when he is angry, and he is the sort to get very angry when someone stains his perfectly good doublet." Said Ulf between chortles.

"Keep it comin' my sweet." Hugh implored, as he drained the goblet and held it out for more. After she had poured him a second glass, Gaemon asked for his to be filled, and Ulf was next to demand a full goblet. Nettles and Maegor were next, and Gaemon realized that during this whole time they'd been oddly quiet. They each appeared to have been eating sugared almonds out of a silver bowl that had been placed at their table, ostensibly as an appetizer.

Ulf looked about the table as he took a huge swig of his wine, wiping the deep red droplets from his lip with his sleeve. "I don't believe I had the pleasure of showing the three of you lot my newest purchase." Setting his goblet down, he hefted his left booted foot from the rushes, placing it on the table, much to the chagrin of the nobles seated to their left at the next table. As they mumurred their disapproval, Ulf smiled and turned his foot to the side, revealing that he was wearing golden spurs. Grinning, he gave it a spin. "I just had to purchase a matching set. Cost me a bit, but when I told the goldsmith I flew a dragon for the Queen he was quite amenable to lowering his prices."

Putting his foot back down, he looked around the table. Hugh shrugged. "Me, I think gold and jewels belong on women. Only whores bedeck themselves so."

Nettles' lips spread in one of her gap toothed grins. "Ulf as a whore. Now that's a sight I'd like to see."

Ulf's expression quickly twisted from pleased to furious. Casting his eyes between both Hugh and Nettles, he downed the rest of his goblet while he muttered angrily to himself.

They were spared what was likely to have been an awkward silence by the Queen standing. The hall quickly quieted as all in attendance turned to hear her speak.

"My Lords and Ladies, I welcome you to this feast on this most auspicious of nights. Having wrested control of this grand city from the Usurper, I only yesterday had the pleasure of ensconcing my son, Prince Joffrey, as heir to the Iron Throne. We gather here to celebrate that triumph on this evening, and I ask that you sup with me in good faith as my leal vassals. Let us raise our voices in unison to cheer Prince Joffrey, the Prince of Dragonstone!"

The Great Hall shook as a deafening roar went up, with thousands of voices shouting their support for the Prince. Joffrey himself stood, a huge grin across his face, before bowing and returning to his seat. As the Queen herself returned to her seat, beaming, she clapped, and servants appeared from doors throughout the chamber, carrying great platters heaping with the first course. Judging by the murmurs and exclamations, it appeared to be huge pork meat pies, seasoned with salt, pepper and sage. The servants placed one at each table, its pastry a warm, golden brown. They carved each person seated at the table a generous slice, and Gaemon felt his mouth water as a slice was placed before him, its delicious vapors wafting up towards him. _Being a dragonseed does certainly come with some perks,_ he thought as he prepared to dig in.

* * *

The feast had lasted several hours, with a total of seven dishes served throughout. Each was incredibly rich fare, and Gaemon was quite sure he'd never had anything quite so delicious. One of his favorite highlights was the capon served stewed in wine, orange and spices that had formed a delicious sauce. He found he loved the refreshing taste of oranges, which until that evening he had never eaten before. Dessert had come in the form of cream custard tarts, dusted with cinnamon and a drizzle of honey. As he downed the dregs of his fifth cup of wine and ate the last piece of a tart, he felt both full and comfortably drunk.

Ulf stood up next to him, his eyes bloodshot and noticeably paler. He shakily rose from the bench, using Gaemon's shoulder to brace himself. He muttered something akin to "time to go have shome real fun" as he drunkenly wandered out of the hall, his golden spurs clinking.

Hugh polished off his goblet of wine, before standing. Wordlessly, he left the three of them. All around the hall many of those who had been in attendance were rising and leaving, after they had bowed in the direction of the Queen's table. Some particularly enterprising lords had lined up to thank the Queen personally, and she accepted their thanks gracefully while snacking on the custard tarts. He turned to Baela, and when their eyes met, he gave her a nod. She smiled, and rose, curtseying to both the Queen and Lord Velaryon, before exiting the hall.

Gaemon turned to the other seeds, grinning. "My thanks for your grand company, but I must take my leave of you now." He took his time extricating himself from the bench at which he had been seated, not wishing to trip or stumble and make a fool of himself.

Nettles looked around the Hall, before raising a dark brown eyebrow. "I'm sure you have important business to attend to Gaemon. But if you thought the walls of Dragonstone had big ears, you should see the size of the fuckers here. Watch yourself." With that, she stood, downed her goblet, and walked from the hall, swaying only slightly from the effects of the wine. Maegor rose after her, clearly intending to make sure she made it back to the Dragonpit in one piece.

Gaemon himself strode from the hall casually, passing Gyles Yronwood who was locked in an intense arm-wrestling contest with one of Lord Velaryon's household knights. They both appeared to be well within their cups, and a vein bulged on the forehead of the hedge knight as he and the Dornishman held each other in gridlock. Gaemon paused to watch the contest, and thought it over as the hedge knight forced Gyles' hand downwards. With a shout and a great outlay of effort, the beleaguered knight was able to push his opponent back, and with much cheering, finally forced the hedge knight's hand down. Gaemon clapped, tossing him a silver stag for his impressive performance.

Reaching the great doors of the hall, he pushed one slightly open in order to slip out into the cool night air. The Red Keep's courtyard was full of torchlight and laughing people staggering their way towards their quarters or the city below. ' _Twas good to see the keep like this_ , he thought to himself. _For far too long now my thoughts have only been of Fire and Blood._ Reaching the small copse of trees alongside the curtain wall, he leaned against one, remaining in the shadow to the best of his ability. As he waited, he took the opportunity to gaze up at the stars above. He had always been fond of stargazing, dreaming of what actually might be up there, beyond even the highest clouds. _Now that I've flown amongst those clouds, I'm not sure if I'll ever know._ In his previous flights, he had tried urging the Cannibal to soar ever higher, but eventually it became bitterly cold, and increasingly difficult to breathe. At that point he had been forced to turn back. _Even so, I'd love to know what all those little glowing pinpricks truly are._

"You know, for someone of low birth, you certainly spend a great deal of your time staring at the sky." Hearing Baela's voice put an end to his ruminations.

"I suppose I've always been the type to want what's just out of reach." He responded.

"How very poetic." Smirking, she leaned against a tree across from him. She had abandoned her courtly raiment, instead choosing to wear a leather jerkin over a black blouse, with leather riding pants and supple black boots to match. True to her word, Baela had come with a wineskin.

"In another life, I probably should have been a mummer, or a bard. I'd offer to serenade you, but to my sorrow the bards were able to make their way to your side faster."

"Seven help me if I have to hear another perfumed man croon in my ear. I can only hear so many sing of the beauty of Princess Rhaenys or the wisdom of Queen Alysanne before I wish to dash myself against the rocks below the keep." Uncorking the wineskin, she took a swig, before offering it to him.

He tipped it back, relishing the sweetness. _So that is Arbor Gold_. It really did taste terrific. Much better than most wines Gaemon had had in his lifetime. Corking it, he handed it back to her. "Thank you for bringing that. I've never actually had the pleasure of drinking a wine of that quality."

Baela nodded. "That is one of the many advantages of befriending a _lady of my station._ " She held out her hand. Smiling, he took it, kissing her ring.

"Shall we go?" He queried.

"I thought you'd never ask."

They had made their way out of the Red Keep relatively quickly, and from what he could tell it had been without notice. Baela had chosen to bring a hooded cloak along with her, which immediately proved valuable in concealing her unmistakable silver-white hair. They took Shadowblack Lane's winding paths down to the base of the hill, and to his relief they had no trouble with anyone as they wandered. Eventually, they made it to the destination he had wanted to escort her to. After his arrival in the city and his reading of the proclamation, he had made his way back to the square he had landed several times. After further inspection, he was quite taken aback by the beauty of its location. The wide square had originally been home to a larger sept, but Maegor the Cruel had destroyed it during his reign, and after the rubble had been cleared away it had been decided that a smaller sept would be built in its stead, with the space to be used instead to create a large square.

After he'd been able to explore it, he had learned that the statue in the center of the square was modeled in the likeness of Jaehaerys I, the King who had ordered for this square to be constructed. He decided to take Baela there, as the square itself was normally full of market stalls, but by night was cleared, revealing a well ordered square lined with trees and beautiful houses. If one were to sit at the feet of the statue of Jaehaerys in the center, you could get a wonderful view of the city from the top of the hill, as the Street of Sisters, ran directly down the hill from the square.

They didn't speak much as they climbed the hill, and Gaemon was grateful that they could both be comfortable with the silence. At this late hour, the streets were largely clear of people, and they were able to make their journey in good time. When they finally reached the square itself, Gaemon gestured with a bow at the stone feet of the Old King.

Baela took her seat, turning to admire the view of the city beneath them. A cool breeze was blowing off of the sea, and it rustled the branches of the trees around the square, almost as if they stood in the midst of a wood.

Baela smiled. "King Jaehaerys would almost certainly _not_ approve of this outing. Then again, he had troubles enough with his own daughters… and sisters for that matter."

Gaemon smiled. "It seems that the Targaryens have never been able to handle the raising of _perfect_ ladies."

Baela snorted. "Certainly not. Once a woman is given a dragon, it is nearly impossible to convince her to return to sewing and singing."

Gaemon sat next to her. "I suppose I should be grateful that our family has such willful daughters. I don't think I'd get along with you half as well if you weren't so adventurous. Besides, I am in your debt for deciding to meet with me in the first place. You've done me a greater service than you can imagine by accepting me as you have." He sighed. "I suppose that is why I brought you here. I felt it necessary to thank you personally."

Baela turned from where she had been looking out across the city. "When Jacaerys… when Jace put forth the call for the seeds, I would have never imagined I would meet you. As a matter of fact I didn't even expect that it would work." She crossed her arms. "Losing Jace was _hard_ , it was probably the hardest thing I've ever experienced. If I had lost Viserys that day as well, I don't know what I would have done. What... what I'm trying to say is that we both have reasons to be grateful to one another." Pausing, she pursed her lips. "You and the other seeds have done wonders for my cousin's cause. Destroying that fleet from the Three Daughters, taking this city… I don't believe we could have done it without your help. That's why I was so infuriated yesterday." Taking a gulp out of the wineskin, she passed it to him.

"My… our father wished to reward you adequately. He asked the Queen to grant you seats taken from disloyal lords. You were to receive Stone Hedge and the hand of a Bracken in marriage for your service, had his plan been implemented. Instead, it was decided that you would be given lesser rewards so as not to infuriate the lords of the realm." Baela shook her head in frustration. "If _I_ had been the one to choose, you'd have received such rewards and more. But the Queen chose differently."

Gaemon was stunned. _My father wished to reward that handsomely? Why would the Queen deny us such rewards when she knows each of us is worth the support of a hundred lords?_ He felt betrayed. _It is worse that such things were on the table and removed, than if they had never been offered at all. We are risking our lives for her_. He realized that Baela was awaiting his response.

"Thank you for telling me this. Even if I am disappointed to hear it, I am relieved to know that there are those on the 'inside' advocating for us."

Baela smiled fiercely. "I'd have been much more vocal in my support if I hadn't already been in such trouble myself." Her smile waned. "The Queen had just decreed that I would have to depart after Prince Joffrey's feast. She wanted to keep up appearances, but refused to allow me to fight for her. It is so vexing; Moondancer and I are _ready._ We could make a _difference._ "

Gaemon ran a hand through his hair. "It is the Queen's loss. I, for one, would have loved to fight alongside you. You're twice as fierce as me, even if you do have a dragon more than _twice as small_."

She had been grinning until the last part, when she delivered him a punch to the shoulder. "At least my dragon isn't old, cantankerous, and cannibalistic."

Gaemon laughed. "Give her time. I'm sure she'll get there some day."

Baela drew her hand back for another blow, but this time he was ready. He caught her wrist midway towards her strike. They sat silently for a moment, as he savored his victory and she gave him another one of her characteristic mischievous smiles. _Ah, fuck it_ , he thought. He let go of her hand, bringing his to her cheek, and kissed her. At first, she recoiled slightly in surprise, but as the reality of the moment dawned on her, she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back. They held each other for a few moments, before finally letting go. It was easily the best kiss he'd ever shared with anyone.

It was a few more moments before she spoke. "I hate to say it, but Rhaena was right. That really was excellent." A wry smile spread across her lips. "I guess I shouldn't have judged it based off of the kissing games we used to play with the squires."

"That probably wouldn't have been the best way to experience it. I can only imagine the seductive appeal of a fumbling squire."

"It… left many things to be desired." She crossed her arms. "You know, if you were trying to console me about the fact I must be leaving, you picked the worst possible way to do so. I've half a mind to refuse to leave."

Gaemon laughed. "If you were to do so, our tryst would be laughably short. I'd lose my head over this for certain."

Baela shrugged. "Over the years, I have gotten quite good at getting what I want. Don't be so quick to write off _our_ potential."

 _Our potential._ He liked the sound of it. _The thought excited him, but the implications sobered him_.

He thought a minute before speaking. "The best thing then is to get you back to Dragonstone _without_ incident."

She nodded. "Tis probably for the best. But I beseech you, if I must go, you'd best give me something to remember you by."

Their kiss that followed was better than the one moments before, which Gaemon found surprising. He had to tell himself to resist his inclination to take things further. Taking her hand, he gave Jaehaerys a pat on the foot.

"I'm sorry, wise king, for scandalizing you so." Baela giggled as they left the square, pulling her hood up once more to conceal her valyrian features. As much as it pained him, he had to take her back, before her absence was noted.

Before they headed back, she turned to Gaemon one last time to speak. "You have to promise me something, Gaemon." He turned, and waited for her next words. "I would give anything to fight alongside you. But since I have been robbed of the chance, you must bring our enemies _Fire and Blood_ in my stead. Most importantly, though, _be safe_. This war has taken too many of those I held dear already."

Gaemon took her hand. "You have my word, Baela." He paused, before grinning. "Besides, woe be to any who try to come between us. I've not even gotten to see what's beneath all these beautiful dresses. The Usurper and his brothers won't know what hit them."

Baela grinned wolfishly. "It is nice to know I have such a powerful incentive at my disposal."


	16. Veron II

**Veron II**

Dalton was mightily displeased, that much was certain. The veins of his neck bulged out dangerously as he cursed the Farmans for their truculence, and his own lords for their failures.

"Would that I had sailed from the Isles with _real men_ , instead of mewling babes and shrieking maidens! Faircastle is nothing to us. It should have been taken during the first storm, let alone the second." His brother's dark eyes surveyed the room, looking for any sign of resistance or insubordination.

The room remained quiet, and the Red Kraken's lords appeared suitably chastised for their failures. Veron had personally overseen the second storming of Faircastle's battlements, and although he had slain one of the knights of its household garrison, the attack had faltered not long after the young Joron Blacktyde had taken a bolt to the neck. The defenders had taken heart and subsequently forced Veron's men from the walls. He had had to personally drag Merrick to the ladders after their position had been rendered untenable, the crazed lad screaming spittle laden curses the entire way.

 _Joron's brother still hasn't forgiven Dalton for the loss of his elder brother. Torgon idolised him._ Veron sighed internally. _Old Way or not, we cannot afford to keep throwing the lives of our reavers away so callously._

As he considered what to do, he watched as Dalton dismissed the assembled lords. Normally on an evening when he was filled with such rage, he would seek out one of his many salt wives, but the majority had been left on the Isles. As for the four lionesses, they had proven "too weepy" for his brother's tastes. He had distributed them amongst his captains after growing tired of their "lack of claws".

As the last of the lords had left the great black tent, Dalton quickly poured himself a deep drought of ale, and quaffed it down eagerly. Turning to his brother, he slammed his fist into the table he had been standing behind.

"Ah Veron, my stalwart sword, if I only had twenty men as true as you. We'd have taken this pathetic seat immediately. True men are hard to find these days, even amongst those who still follow the _Old Way_."

Veron resisted the urge to smile bitterly. _Be careful what you wish for brother. Such 'true men' may not be exactly as you imagine them_. Removing his helmet from where it rested in the crook of his arm, he set it down upon the table.

"I have an idea, brother, if I may?" He asked nonchalantly.

Dalton's eyes narrowed. They seemed to be weighing the benefits of accepting his brother's council. Veron was certain that his brother wished to order another storming the next day, but he hoped that his inner pragmatist would allow him to at least consider Veron's proposal.

"Speak, brother. Let me hear this idea of yours."

Veron inhaled, and began to speak. As he did, the rage slowly ebbed from his brother's face, replaced with a wicked grin. His black eyes gleamed like chipped onyx in the torchlight. _Ah, good_. He thought to himself. _I have him._

It had taken until long after nightfall for the other captains to be informed of the plan, and although some were displeased at its _unconventional_ nature, many were eager to take part in such a scheme. The Ironborn host was divided into two sections, and after they had been split, Veron led his host to the shore, where the boats and the stores of looted goods they had reached the shoreline, the men began to rummage through the piles of loot, finding pothelms, spears, shortswords, mail, and other accoutrements necessary for the scheme. Most importantly, they donned blood-red cloaks, some sewn with the badges of golden lions. Veron himself had already removed his prized black and gold plate. Instead, he silently thanked the Lannister knight he had slain weeks earlier in Lannisport for his generosity. _If only he could have lived to see his garish plate put to such good use_ , Veron thought with a wicked grin. After an hour had passed, he walked to the shore to examine himself, and had to suppress a chortle at his ridiculous appearance.

His reflection stared back at him with an evidently pleased smile, as he examined the suit of crimson plate he now found himself in. He found that it fit fairly well, which was lucky. His long black hair that flowed from the back of the helm certainly did not fit the image, but as the 'saviors' of Fair Isle would be attacking under the cover of darkness, he thought that it was unlikely to matter.

Turning to the thousands of men assembled on the beach, he began to speak in his best mimicry of a Westerlands accent: "Dear men, this night we assemble on these fair shores to drive these foul and filthy scum from our lands. They certainly have no idea that we are coming, and I can assure you, _neither does Faircastle_! For the Warrior, the Maiden, and… ah… I'll be damned. Charge!"

A massive cackling roar went up amongst the men as he led them over the dunes, holding torches aloft and screaming bloody murder. Holding his blade aloft, he led this mass of grizzled killers in bloodstained red cloaks towards the Red Kraken's encampment beneath the walls of the enemy keep.

The enemy host of Ironborn, mostly 'asleep' was completely 'shocked' and soon calls to arms could be heard through, in panicked, hoarse voices. Men began to scream and fall as they were 'cut down' by those who they'd fought alongside the day before, and soon, several tents were aflame and a great 'slaughter' had begun. Veron himself 'cut down' Melwick Myre, who cursed hatefully as he fell, his wheezing laughter lost in the storm of battle. A few feet from him, Tommard 'knifed' a lad pleading for mercy. The most puissant men of the Westerlands had taken Dalton's host by complete surprise, and resistance quickly collapsed as the enemy army, exhausted from a day of battle, was slowly forced back from the field, before finally shattering and fleeing for the hills and the hinterland of the isle. The entire 'bloody' affair had lasted forty-five minutes or so.

Only a few moments later, the stunned occupants upon the walls of Faircastle found a proud 'lion' beneath their gate.

Veron, grinning beneath the helmet's visor, addressed them: "Good people of Fair Isle, your salvation is here. As soon as Lady Johanna heard of your plight, she sent all she could muster to relieve you, wishing to give aid to the most honorable Lord Farman and his people."

He almost couldn't believe his ears as he began to hear sobs of relief echo from the battlements, and calls were raised internally to "open the gates". After a few moments of silence, the great gatehouse of Faircastle began to creak and groan as the gate swung slowly open, revealing a bedraggled older man in a doublet that depicted three white ships. At his sides were what must have been two grizzled household knights. Veron strode forward, his chest puffed out, in his best imitation of a proud knight. As he passed through the gatehouse, his men close behind, many cries of "seven bless yee" and "thankee, m'lord" rang out from the smallfolk gathered within the courtyard.

The older man stepped forward. He looked exhausted, but his face was etched with clear relief as he greeted his 'savior'.

"Prithee, good ser, what might be thy name? I do so wish to honor such a bold knight who came during our hour of need, so that I might thank him properly."

As more and more of the host of the 'Westerlands' filed in, Veron knew the battle was over before it had even begun. Smiling, he raised his visor so that all could see. Their faces registered a delicious confusion as he did so, as they perceived his eyes to be dark, and his hair black, instead of the emeralds and beaten gold that they surely expected.

"Lord Farman, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you. My name is Veron Greyjoy."

Before any could react, he drew his sword in a diagonal slashing arc, cutting across the face of one of the Lord's attendant knights, sending him careening backwards, his screams all too real this time. Whirling to face the other, he sent an armored elbow into the side of the Lord's head, sending him staggering to his knees. The other knight, to his credit, had only allowed the shock to immobilize him for a few seconds, after which he had quickly drawn his sword. Veron caught the man's first strike, a savage downward slash, on his shield, which cut a gash in the proud roaring lion. He initially gave some ground, allowing for the older man to tire himself as he hacked furiously away at Veron's defences. He waited patiently for his opportunity, and as the knight overextended himself, he quickly used his shield to catch the strike and knock his sword arm back, rotating his own body to deliver a powerful lunge, sending his blade into the man's exposed neck. _In his haste to greet their saviors, he fastened his gorget improperly_ , Veron observed.

Falling to his knees, blood flowed freely from the savage wound, staining his opponent's doublet, which depicted a flock of gulls taking flight from a silver cliff. Veron forcefully withdrew his blade, allowing the man to fall face first into the courtyard, his lifesblood running a deep crimson amongst the flagstones. He turned, preparing himself for his next opponent, but the fight was already dying down. His men had flooded so quickly into the gates that they were able to force their way into the gatehouse and prevent them from being closed. That had sealed the doom of the garrison and the occupants, as many of them had either already been cut down or had fallen to their knees, pleading for succor. Merrick had already grabbed the frame of a guardsman's cot from within a barracks and was using it as a makeshift ram, hammering away with several other men at the keep's wooden doors. Judging by how much they shivered with each blow, they would not last much longer.

Pleased, he took a knee, using the corner of his fallen opponent's doublet to clean the length of his blade. Lord Farman struggled to rise a few feet away, but collapsed as Torgon Blacktyde's boot forced him once more to the ground. Torgon looked questioningly at Veron, but he shook his head.

"Leave the old man alive. He's not going to be a threat to anyone, and he'll be worth something as a hostage."

The men hammering at the entrance to the keep were finally able to batter down its doors, and judging by the shouting and screams that emanated from within, they were able to fairly quickly subjugate the occupants in the great hall. Rising, Veron went to supervise the final stages of the occupation.

* * *

When the smoke had begun to clear, the survivors of the sack had been gathered into the yard. The vast majority of them were small folk, women and children mostly. The garrison of the castle had been put to the sword, along with the attendant knights. Lord Farman and his family had been captured alive, with his five daughters and two sons brought into the courtyard to join their father. Ironborn reavers milled about the yard, either looking for loot amongst the corpses, eyeing the crowd for potential salt wives, or simply just enjoying their victory. Veron waited stoically for his brother's arrival in the main yard.

He did not have to wait long, as once word had arrived that the castle had been taken, the 'shattered remnants' of the Ironborn host had begun to filter back from their positions behind the hills to join their recently resurrected brethren who had previously littered the field. The Red Kraken himself entered the courtyard on foot, grinning from ear to ear, admiring its beautiful tall white towers that had recently been blackened with soot and smoke. Removing his helm, Dalton surveyed the assembled prisoners before beginning to speak.

"Let this memory remain well etched into the minds of all those present here today. I promise you, there will be no glory, no honor, and no hope in resisting my conquest. No one will sing songs of your valor, or remain to bury your husbands and sons. I will break each and every Lord of this land, as my forefathers did before me. For too long, the Sunset Sea has lacked the strong hand of my people. I will not rest until you all know what it means to be thralls once again." Stopping his pacing in front of the Farmans, he turned to Veron. "Did this lot give you much trouble, brother?"

Veron shook his head. "The Lord is an old man, and his sons are too young and feeble to fight. I am told the daughters put up more of a fight than any of the men." Balon Wynch had informed him earlier that the eldest one had knocked a tooth from one of his men when they had broken down her door. She herself bore the scars of such folly, her face already heavily bruised, with one eye swollen shut.

Dalton paused. "Perhaps the women have maintained a modicum of strength even as their menfolk have failed them." He took the chin of one of the daughters in his gauntleted hand, turning her face this way and that to consider her. Turning to their father, he smiled. "You've certainly got some comely girls, my lord. I will give you that much. If the Drowned God wills it, they will provide me with strong sons to continue my line." Reaching the battered and bruised daughter, he looked her up and down. "As for you my dear, your wounds have rendered you rather _homely_. I have little interest in such ill-used goods, but I know just the man for you."

Veron felt a chill run down his spine. _Curses Dalton. Not her, not now. At least grant me the right to choose one on my own terms._ His wish would prove to be in vain, however, as he found his brother's eyes locking with his and guffaws and chuckles rang out from amidst the Ironborn.

"You, my dear, will have the honor of laying with my own brother. Perhaps you can convince him of the value of a warm bed, and a willing woman. I promise he won't disappoint you too much, for he is _my_ close kin, after all."

The girl didn't even bother to look at his brother. She instead raised her eyes to meet Veron, and he was quite certain he'd never been the recipient of a stare so cold. She held his gaze for a few moments, before spitting at his feet, which only caused the men assembled to laugh harder. He clenched his fist, but withheld it. _She's already proven she harbors no fear of a man's hands._

Veron cleared his throat. "I thank you, brother, for your gift. I do suppose it is long past time for me to claim a salt wife of my own."

"Long past time indeed, Veron. The Old Way can be unforgiving, even to its most ardent practitioners. It would behoove you to get her with child as soon as possible. You'll need strong sons to carry on your legacy." He turned back to the Lord. "As the new Lord of Faircastle, I don't suppose I need you or your sons skulking about." He tapped his chin a few moments. "Lord Harlaw, send a raven to the Rock. Inform the Lady Lannister we hold the Farman male line hostage. Tell her we will ransom them for their weight in silver to her."

The Lord Reaper nodded. "It will be done, my Lord."

Dalton smirked. "Until then, throw them in their own cells. I see no reason for them to join us at tonight's victory feast. Veron, see to it they are provided with a cell _befitting_ of their lordly station."

Several of Dalton's men grabbed the lord and his young sons, leading them further into the keep. Veron followed them down a cool stone staircase that winded deep into the earth. At its base, they found a row of iron-gated cells, in which they shoved their prisoners. Veron felt confident that the gaoler could be trusted not to free his liege, seeing as his corpse was already splayed out across the floor. As he turned to leave, the old man spoke up.

"How can you live with yourself, you _animal_. No true man would exploit the trust of the innocent."

Veron smirked, but he knew the smile didn't reach his eyes. Instead of responding, he left them there, silent in the darkness. _The old man is correct about one thing. I am no true man._

* * *

The stores and larders of Faircastle had been thrown open by the time he had made his way up the stairs and were in the process of being completely emptied. A host of this size would need all that had been stored in order to throw a proper feast. _Tis fortunate for us that winter approaches,_ he thought, _otherwise they'd be unlikely to have put this much away._ His brother was already seated in the lord's seat within the Great Hall, and many of the Lords Reaper had gathered about him, seated amongst the tables below. They were already drinking their fill of ale and wine, as great impromptu spits had been set up within the center of the hall to roast several hogs that had been butchered for the occasion. Entire loafs of bread, wheels of cheese, and cuts of smoked meat lay piled over the tables, and in the courtyard and the fields beyond the great Ironborn host was already deeply engaged in its revelry.

Dalton was attended by his four new salt wives, each of whom had been stripped bare. _I'm sure he enjoys his ability to allow his lords to look upon - but not touch- his newest wives._ He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the fear, but the youngest stood shivering, as she served his brother his ale. She must have done something to displease him, for as quick as a whip he snatched her up over his shoulders and carried her up a set of stairs leading to what must have been the lord's chambers. The Lords Reaper raised their tankards in a hearty cheer, spouting ribald toasts. The other sisters seemed distraught, and had no idea what to do. They quickly made farmanthemselves scarce as soon as they realized that their new husband was no longer present to ward off other potential 'suitors'.

As he poured himself a tankard of ale, and subsequently drained it, he felt a firm hand on his arm. Turning, he found himself face to face with a grinning Hilmar Drumm, who told him "his blushing bride awaited him in her chambers in the Southern Tower."

Veron forced a smile, and quickly guzzled another tankard. Grabbing a small barrel of ale, and making sure its spigot was still sealed, he made his way towards the South Tower. Behind him came several Lords Reaper and his crew, drunkenly singing the 'Bear and the Maiden Fair'. _There is no avoiding this now,_ he thought to himself, miserable. As he made his way, the men unclasped and undid his armor, in the absence of women to do the task. Climbing the stairs, he eventually reached the door that they assured him was her quarters. Throwing it open, they pushed him inside and slammed it behind him.

The girl sat at her window, gazing out to sea. Veron quickly found a luxuriously upholstered chair to sit in, and began pouring himself a new tankard. He desperately found himself _willing_ himself to feel some sort of spark, some sort of arousal, but when he looked at her in her torn dress, he felt _nothing_. He drowned his disappointment with a deep gulp of ale.

Standing, he approached her from behind, stopping less than an arms length behind her. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him, and received a stinging slap as a reward. He staggered, and she ran past him for the door, only to find that it was locked. He ran after her, grabbing her arm and throwing her backwards onto the bed. As he loomed over her, he met her eyes once again, and their hate once more stabbed through him. He began to undo his trousers, fumbling from the drunkenness, only to shout and slam his fist against the wall. Staggering backwards, he collapsed into the chair. Topping off his tankard, he took another deep gulp, before speaking softly, so as to not alert those who were definitely listening in from the outside.

"I can assure you, I want nothing to do with you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was beginning to feel incredibly drunk at this point, with it becoming increasingly hard to focus on any given object. "For appearances sake, would you mind tearing your dress a tad?"

By this point, the woman had crawled to the edge of her bed, and was staring at him with a mixture of wariness and disbelief.

Veron laughed, which sounded like a bitter, wheezing old man to his ears. "I am completely sheerious." Taking another deep sip, he groaned loudly, imitating the sounds of pleasure he had heard other men make as they laid with women. Outside, a round of cheers and guffaws could be heard through the door, gradually subsiding as the audience tramped down the stairs. He turned back to face the woman, who was sitting on the edge of the bed still, her knees tucked under her chin. Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes, feeling as though the world was spinning.

"Jussht try to ignore me." He whispered. He fell asleep to the sounds of quiet crying.

* * *

With the morning, his consciousness returned, and with it, the pain that always awaited him after a night of heavy drinking. Veron kept his eyes shut initially, hoping to fall back asleep, but his head felt as though several reavers had taken axes to it. The rhythmic pounding was brutal enough to keep him awake, and he gradually opened his eyes in order to take in his surroundings. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow stone slit that served as a window, and he quickly averted his eyes from that source of additional pain. His tankard lay on the floor next to the chair he woke in, and he felt a profound sense of revulsion the longer he looked at it. It was only when he heard the girl stir that he remembered that he was, in fact, not alone.

He watched her toss and turn, her sleep evidently fitful and fraught with what appeared to be a nightmare. Strangely, he felt pity. _It is a cruel world that awaits her outside her dreams. To return to a waking world that is more terrifying than your nightmares is a harsh fate_. He could sympathize with her plight, as he was aware of the solace retreating to one's dreams could provide. _It appears that her gods could not even grant her that boon._ Eventually, she twisted so violently in her sleep that she must have woken herself, as her eyes opened, wide-eyed and terrified. When the reality of her surroundings and present situation registered, he saw her eyes dim. It was then that she turned to face him, her bruises from the previous day an even uglier color.

He smiled at her bitterly. "It seems we have been wed. You have the honor of being the first salt wife to the brother of the Red Kraken himself."

She sat, her hair a disheveled mess, and regarded him with a mixture of barely concealed loathing, and something that might have been a guarded curiosity. She finally opened her mouth to speak, and winced, her jaw having apparently protested at the sudden movement.

"Is this all some sort of cruel jape? I thought Ironborn took great pleasure in the _rape_ of their captives, and the pillaging of their homes."

Veron frowned. He sincerely hoped that she would not become a liability. It had dawned on him that there might be some benefit to having a salt wife, instead of continuing with his aloofness towards the fairer sex.

He sighed. "Would you have preferred that I _did_?" He spat out.

She paled slightly, considering his words. Before she could speak again, he decided to make his point even clearer.

"Bruises or not, you're a pretty enough lass. There are _many_ men in that hall below that would like nothing better than to have their way with you. If you would prefer it otherwise, speak now. Otherwise, I'll hear no more of it."

Studying him, she remained silent. His head continued to pound, but despite how his pain distracted him he could see the unmistakable look of calculation etched across her features. She began to tie her hair into a braid, as she evidently considered her circumstances. He headed for the door, but paused before exiting.

"It is customary for salt wives to serve their masters at their meals. It would be amiss if you did not. Given that that is the case, I will expect you to accompany me."

A scowl split her face, but after a moment, she rose wordlessly. As she took her place behind him, he grabbed the bodice of her dress, tearing it apart to reveal her breasts. She winced in shock, but didn't move to hit him as she had before.

He scowled. "We wouldn't want the men to think I'd gone _too_ easy on you now, would we?"

Wrenching the door open with a metallic screech that was murder on his already sensitive senses, he and his new companion took the winding steps back down to the hall, retracing his steps from the previous evening. She followed him along gingerly, covering herself with the vestiges of her dress, whose blue, yellow, and red Farman colors still shone brightly despite some soot and ash from the night previous. Reaching the Great Hall, he found his brother holding an impromptu court, surrounded by many of his captains. Below, many reavers were breaking their fast. The other daughters of Lord Farman were nowhere to be seen. _Perhaps he finally let them clothe themselves and rest_ , he thought, _Dalton is always ever so merciful._

As he approached, Dalton's face broke into a sadistic, gleeful grin, his eyes sparkling like the ocean in starlight. Somehow, in this form, the sight was not the least bit calming.

"Brother! The men tell me you had quite the evening. Did you break the new salt wife in? She was quite the spirited lass, from what I hear."

Veron shrugged nonchalantly. "She is a fighter. But I've been fighting all my life. She was nothing I could not handle."

His response earned him chuckles and praises from throughout the chamber. While Dalton returned to his lords, he sat at an open space at one of the long tables. He ordered some wine to help ease his head, and some bread to soak up the remaining ale in his stomach. He also asked his new wife for some of whatever was roasting on the fire. He sat in silence as she scurried off to fetch his requests, propping his head up against his hand on the table. He allowed himself to drift off in his mind, imagining his family's favorite beach on Pyke, its smooth black-pebbled shore just a short ride from Pyke castle. He could almost hear the waves lapping gently alongside the laughter of his sisters. _I wonder if the Farmans have any such beaches,_ he thought to himself. That errant thought troubled him, but he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.

He was shaken out of his stupor by a guffaw, the sound of a slap, and a shout. Turning, he saw Harrick Codd holding his wife's wrist tightly, an angry red mark on his face where she had evidently made her displeasure known. Rising from his seat, he approached, plucking a carving knife from where it had been embedded in one of the slabs of cooked meat upon the tables. As he approached, Harrick let go of the Farman girl, and turned to face him, grinning stupidly.

"Deepest apologies, Lord Veron. I was just trying to get a look at the merchandise, as it were, and your wife, well… she just wasn't being very accommodating. The lads and I were mighty curious what kind of goods she might've been packing after your brother…"

Whatever words would have left his lips were cut short as Veron drew an angry red line across Codd's neck. Not a moment later, his blood began to pulse out, wetting the stones of the hall's floor. Veron knelt, wiping his knife delicately on the gurgling Harrick's shirt, before returning to his seat at the table. He motioned for his wife to join him, and they sat in silence as he began to eat. As he offered her a bit of bread, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, his eyes met those of Dalton's. He wasn't exactly surprised to find his brother smiling.

"Veron, I must say it pleases me to see you finally know what it feels like to be a _jealous lover_. I'm sure you're well aware I'd have done the same in your shoes, or boots, as it were."

He nodded, returning to his food. He wasn't particularly interested in his brother's jests at the moment. He felt a small measure of satisfaction as he felt him tense in annoyance at his lack of attention. Nonetheless, Dalton continued to speak.

"Yesterday you won me great acclaim and renown as your liege, brother. Your plan was undeniably an important step in seizing this castle, especially after its garrison had been exhausted by our repeated assaults. In light of your accomplishments, I think it only fair that I reward you adequately. I charge you with leading our first assault on the mainland since the storming of Lannisport. As you will recall, the Lady of the Rock, Johanna Lannister, was formerly of House Westerling. I'm sure you'll also recall that House's seat is the Crag, an eminently defensible coastal fortress. I charge you with seizing that fortress, for the glory of House Greyjoy and the Old Way. Bring me Lady Lannister's family in chains, so that we may show her the Rock cannot protect _everything_ she holds dear."

Veron continued chewing his meal in silence for a few moments, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes upon him. Taking a swig of wine, he raised his head to once more meet Dalton's eyes.

"It will be done, brother."


	17. Hobert II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The road to Tumbleton grows ever shorter. As our sole perspective in the Greens, Hobert is witness to many of their more deplorable acts, as will be shown in this chapter. We want to thank you all for your continued support of this story, and feedback/comments are always greatly appreciated!

**Hobert II**

Longtable had offered a much greater resistance than many of the other castles that had pledged their swords to the usurper Princess Rhaenyra's cause. Hobert had been relieved that the siege had offered him the chance to spend less time atop a horse. _My saddle sores have become more than bothersome_. The march from Oldtown had been a long one, but since the bloody battle along the banks of the Honeywine, his cousin Lord Ormund's army had met no real resistance as they continued northeast. _We have Prince Daeron and Tessarion to thank for that_ , Hobert mused. The Prince oft flew ahead of the army on his dragon, reporting of any activity he saw on the roads, preventing any attempts by the Blacks to set up an effective ambush or organize any retaliatory strikes.

Hobert took another sip of Arbor Gold, and slouched further into his camp chair. _I'm always so dreadfully tired_. In his youth, Hobert Hightower had never been a vital or vigorous man, and with his advanced age, he had never felt older. When he woke, his whole body would ache, and it would take several minutes for him to rise from his cot, stiffly and miserably. His sleep was fitful and restless, and when he did dream, he would dream of his home, the Hightower.

 _Oh what I would give to return!_ Hobert had heard that one never truly appreciated what they had until it was gone, and he found those words truer and truer with every league he put between himself and his beloved home. _How I miss the sea breeze, and restful days spent in comfort and contentment_. Hobert sighed sadly. _War does have its horrors, I suppose_.

Hobert was drawn from his morose thoughts by a man-at-arms wearing a Hightower badge stepping into his tent. "M'lord, the maester is here to see ya." Seeing Hobert's small nod in the affirmative, the man-at-arms walked back outside, and Hobert could hear the man's muffled voice permitting the maester entry.

With a small ruffle, the maester slipped through Hobert's tent flap, the chain about his neck clinking. Hobert sat up in his chair, and called out a greeting to the man. "Good evening, maester Armond."

The maester smiled thinly. "Apologies, Ser, but my name is Aubrey." He walked across the dusty Myrish rug that stretched along the floor of Hobert's tent, before stopping and bowing slightly in front of him.

Slightly embarrassed, Hobert nodded in return. "Yes of course, maester Aubrey, how silly of me to forget!" Taking another sip of his Arbor Gold, Hobert made a gesture towards several empty silvered chalices and a flagon. "May I interest you in some Arbor Gold? I find that this one is a particularly exquisite vintage."

Maester Aubrey smiled again, but shook his head. "Many thanks, Ser Hobert, but I must respectfully decline. With the influx of gold and provisions from Longtable, I must needs make a complete inventory of it all before the army marches again. It would not do for the baggage train to have supplies unaccounted for."

Hobert nodded. Maester Aubrey had proved invaluable in helping to ensure that the baggage train of Lord Ormund's army ran smoothly. Though Hobert commanded the train, he had assigned the duties of organization and inventory to maester Aubrey, while he had allocated all other matters of import to his attendant knight, Ser Jared. The majority of the maesters accompanying Lord Ormund's army on its march were young men who had only recently forged their chains, eager to prove their talents and catch the eye of important Lords. _With luck, they may be asked by a powerful Lord to serve at his seat when the war ends_.

Maester Aubrey was not an exception. He was a young man, and Hobert guessed that he had counted nearly thrice as many years as the maester. If his memory served, Hobert believed that the maester had been born a Prester of Feastfires. _He has been a great help to me throughout this loathsome march_.

The maester cleared his throat politely, and Hobert regarded the man tiredly, awaiting his daily evening report. "Though our food supplies had been lower than advised for an army of such size, the addition of House Merryweather's foodstores to our own has ensured that the army will remain adequately fed throughout the foreseeable future of this campaign." Maester Aubrey paused, brandishing a small scroll from within his deep sleeves, and regarding the writing on it. "The gold we have seized only adds to the considerable amount kept for the paying of the mercenary companies that march with the army."

As the maester droned on, Hobert found himself struggling to focus as fatigue continued to set in. Once the maester finished his report, Hobert planned to get as much sleep as possible before the next day's march. Lord Ormund had called together the Lords and other leaders of his army together earlier in the day to discuss their next destination now that the siege of Longtable had been brought to a close. _Bitterbridge is the next seat that will be paid a visit by my cousin's army_.

Taking another deep sip of his Arbor Gold, Hobert noticed that the maester seemed to be finishing his report. He bowed to Hobert, his chain clinking, and made to leave his tent. "Maester!" Hobert called out, and the young man turned to regard him. "What news have you of the condition of the Bastard of Bitterbridge? We may have need of him when we march on his home."

Maester Aubrey thought for a moment before responding. "Ser Tomard Flowers' condition improves daily, Ser Hobert. He will carry burn scars for the rest of his life, but he will soon have no further need of the salves and bandages that I have been applying to his burn wounds each morn."

Hobert nodded at the maester's words. "Thank you maester. That will be all for tonight." The maester inclined his head at him, then turned and left his tent quietly. Draining the last dregs of Arbor Gold from his goblet, Hobert stood from his camp chair, wincing at how his sore body creaked with the sudden movement.

As he prepared to call for a squire to help him remove his mail for the evening, a messenger with a Hightower badge entered Hobert's tent. "Apologies, Ser, but I come with a message from Lord Ormund Hightower. He has called for an emergency council in his pavilion, and your presence is expected with as much immediacy as possible."

* * *

"I say we should have sent the bitch the Bastard of Bitterbridge's head in recompense for the dragon egg!" Ser Jon Roxton shouted, and many of the men in Lord Ormund's pavilion cried out their approval. The egg that Bold Jon referred to sat on a table placed at the rear of Lord Ormund's pavilion. It was a splendid thing to look upon, possessing a pale green color, with beautiful sworls of silver across its surface.

Hobert found himself at a loss for words as the Lords and knights surrounding him argued about what the army's next course of action should be. _What a terrible, terrible tragedy_. The Prince Maelor Targaryen had been little more than a babe when he was killed, a child of about three years. The knights that Lady Caswell had sent with the Prince's dragon egg hadn't wished to give the details of his death, but when pressed, they eventually revealed that he had been torn to pieces by a crowd of smallfolk wishing to claim the usurper Rhaenyra's bounty.

Lord Ormund sat at his table in silence, face taut and dark with a barely-contained rage. Cousin Bryndon controlled his emotions with less grace, stalking back and forth in front of cousin Ormund's table like a caged beast. _We were only thirty leagues away from where Prince Maelor was killed, but it may as well have been one thousand. We weren't able to save him all the same_. The Prince Daeron had yet to return from scouting ahead along the road to Bitterbridge in preparation for the army's march the next day. Hobert knew that cousin Ormund wouldn't dismiss the assembled nobles and knights until the Prince arrived at the pavilion and was given the news.

Lord Unwin Peake began to speak, and though his voice was not nearly as boisterous as Jon Roxton's, it was full of a cold fury that drew the attention of the men in the pavilion. "The usurper Princess Rhaenyra's folly has cost our King and his leal subjects far too much. It is long past time that we sent a message to catch the attention of the Princess and her traitorous followers. I say that we raze Bitterbridge to the ground, and slaughter all within and leave their corpses for the carrion crows!"

Hobert felt himself paling at Lord Unwin's words. _The murder of Prince Maelor deserves harsh retribution, to be sure, but to raze an entire town?_ Lord Unwin's words had garnered a mixed reaction from the assembled men. Some were nodding and calling out their support, while others appeared more hesitant. _To this point, we have done nothing to those who surrender to us except to claim their food stores and treasuries, and to take some of their garrison into our own army's ranks._ Lord Unwin was suggesting more than a sack, he was calling for the utter annihilation of a town and castle that had stood since the Age of Heroes.

Hobert glanced at Lord Ormund, wondering what his response would be. Before his cousin could speak up, however, the tent flap was flung aside as the Prince Daeron Targaryen strode in. The occupants of the pavilion grew silent as the young dragonrider crossed its length to look upon the egg placed on Lord Ormund's table. Upon seeing it, the Prince's face grew dark with fury, his purple eyes glinting dangerously in the light of the braziers throughout the pavilion.

When the Prince began to speak, his voice seemed to be nearly as full of grief and sorrow as it was with rage. "So the rumors I heard throughout the camp were true. They've murdered my nephew." His mailed fist was clenched, and the Prince's eyes blazed with a murderous fire. "The life of just one of my brother's sons was not enough to sate my vile half-sister and her brood. Will it be my niece next? If it's blood that the Queen and her supporters want, then I shall gladly give them that. Aye, I'll see them drown in a river of it."

The Lords and knights surrounding the Prince began to shout their support, with Ser Jon Roxton's voice being the loudest of all. Lord Unwin Peake merely stood in silence, but a vicious smile had spread across his face. _Lord Peake wants revenge for his son as much as for the King's murdered heirs._ Ser Titus Peake, Lord Unwin's last living son, had died not long before the army's arrival at Longtable, wasting away from wounds taken in a skirmish with broken men. _So many lives of impeccable lineage lost, and for what?_ Hobert frowned in vexation. _Because a Princess couldn't be satisfied with the rights of her brother being upheld._

Prince Daeron turned to cousin Ormund, addressing him directly. "I will mount Tessarion and fly without delay. I mean to burn Bitterbridge to ash before the sun has risen." It was at that moment that Lord Ormund finally stood from his seat, and all within the pavilion regarded him expectantly.

Placing a hand on Prince Daeron's shoulder, the Lord of Oldtown began to speak. "My Prince, I will not deny you your revenge, for the Queen and her supporters have well-earned such retribution. However, I beg of you that you wait to attack Bitterbridge until you have my army at your back. We can't risk the life of another Prince of the blood so callously." Lord Ormund smiled darkly before continuing. "And with the aid of the army, my Prince, I can assure you that the price Bitterbridge will pay for its treasons will be steep." Prince Daeron did not speak in response to Lord Ormund's words, but merely nodded his silent assent.

* * *

To Hobert, the army's march spanning the thirty leagues from Longtable to Bitterbridge felt as though it lasted a lifetime, due to the anticipation of what was to come. Hobert had never more felt his threescore years of age than during that seemingly interminable ride, as Ser Jared occasionally rode up alongside him in a cloud of dust to report on the state of the baggage train. Though the Roseroad allowed for efficient travel, the size of the army marching along it meant that Hobert and the baggage train arrived at the chosen campsite last, as the sun sat low in the evening sky.

The army had camped about a league south of Bitterbridge, along the banks of the Mander. It seemed to Hobert as though a grim pall had hung over the camp that night, for it had not taken long for the rumors of Prince Daeron's planned vengeance to spread amongst the men. The mercenaries sharpened their swords, the pious men prayed, and all waited for what the next day would bring. Hobert had tossed and turned in his cot, unable to sleep, considering the part he would play in the events of the upcoming day. _It will likely be battle, with whatever forces Lady Caswell manages to muster_. It mattered not, however. _Bitterbridge could have an army larger than ours defending it, but they would still break under the flames of Tessarion._

Before dawn, Hobert rose, waking his squire to help him get into his plate armor. _Though it's frightfully uncomfortable, I dare not be unprepared if fighting starts._ As the morning sun shone across the camp and sparkled along the waters of the Mander, Hobert rode to join his cousins at the front of the army, entrusting the baggage train to Ser Jared. Though it took him some time, he eventually found himself at the front of the army's vanguard, awash with knights in shining armor atop proud and powerful steeds. _The forces of the usurper Rhaenyra stand no chance against such puissant knights_ , Hobert thought with pride. _Much of the chivalry of the Reach rides beneath the King's banner. We shall see that he reclaims his rightful throne_.

Lord Ormund nodded at Hobert from atop his white destrier as Hobert steered his palfrey towards him, and cousin Bryndon gave him a fierce smile. Lord Ormund called out to Hobert as he joined the trotting group of Lords and landed knights at the head of the van. "I'm glad that you have joined us this morn, cousin Hobert. It is my intent that all the members of our family in this army be present to witness the justice meted out to the Caswells for the murder of our relation, the Prince Maelor." Hobert nodded at his cousin's words, before dabbing at the beads of sweat forming upon his forehead with a kerchief. _Let us hurry and make an end to this miserable day_.

* * *

Hobert watched intently as Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron rode forward to treat with Lady Melissa Caswell. _Though if my memory serves, she was born a Ball_. Since her traitorous husband's death on the orders of King Aegon, the woman had been ruling as regent for her young son, the new lord of Bitterbridge. She had originally shared the rule with the castle's castellan, Ser Tomard Flowers, but since he had ridden off at the head of a great host along with Lord Thaddeus Rowan, she had ruled alone. _That was how the Bastard of Bitterbridge had described it, at least_.

As the leader of the baggage train, one of Hobert's chief duties was overseeing the three prisoners the army had been trundling along with them in an iron-caged wagon. Some prisoners taken after the battle on the Honeywine river had refused to be reconciled and were promptly executed. Though they had also refused to be reconciled, Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and Ser Tomard Flowers had been deemed knights of enough status and import that they would be brought to King's Landing to face the judgement of King Aegon himself.

Wearing tattered and sun-faded doublets that bore their Houses' sigils, Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury had grown haggard during their captivity, but still spit curses and threats when provoked. Lord Alan Tarly was especially wroth, for his family's ancestral valyrian steel greatsword _Heartsbane_ had been taken by the knight who captured him. Ser Balman was the foremost of Bold Jon Roxton's household knights, and though some argued that the knight had risen above himself in taking _Heartsbane_ , Ser Jon Roxton had reminded them that it was Ser Balman's by right as a prize of war.

Once his burns had healed enough that he could walk, the Bastard of Bitterbridge joined the two Alans in the caged wagon, covered in salves and wrapped in bandages that were dutifully changed by maester Aubrey each morn. His doublet bearing the reversed colors of House Caswell had been returned to him, singed so badly from flame that the white centaur across its center had turned half black.

Lady Caswell had ridden across the stone bridge spanning the Mander to meet Lord Ormund's approaching army with a score of household knights and men-at-arms. The town of Bitterbridge with its small stone-and-timber castle in its center loomed on the other side of the river, and its streets were crowded with terrified people fleeing further northeast from the town along the Roseroad. Wearing a mourner's black riding dress, as well as a black woolen cloak fastened with a golden centaur clasp, Lady Caswell appeared exhausted to Hobert's eyes. Her green eyes had dark bags under them, and she clutched her reins so tightly that her knuckles were white as bone.

With a strained voice, she addressed Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron, but Hobert and the other men assembled behind them could hear her words. "We have been aware of the approach of your army for some time. I do not have the soldiers to fight you, and I wish to avoid bringing bloodshed and destruction to this town at all costs. All that I ask of you is for the terms that were offered to every other castle that your army besieged." The men around Hobert began to murmur angrily, and he could only imagine what expressions must have crossed the visages of Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron.

In a cold voice tight with rage, Prince Daeron responded. "I think not, my lady. You shall receive the same terms you gave my nephew Maelor." Hobert watched as the color quickly drained from Lady Caswell's face.

When Lady Caswell spoke again, whatever decorum she had maintained had been washed away by panic, and she spoke in a desperate and pleading tone. "Prince Daeron, you are mistaken. The Prince Maelor was brought here in secrecy by Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard, to an inn within this town that is admittedly of ill repute. I had no knowledge of his presence until he had already been murdered by rabble. I made sure that all who were responsible were hanged in retribution. Prince Maelor's death was a travesty, and I would have done all in my power to prevent it had I known of his presence."

Lord Ormund was the next to speak, in a tone that was no less enraged than Prince Daeron's. "And what, pray tell, would you have done with Prince Maelor had you been able to retrieve him? Returned him to the usurper Rhaenyra? She surely would have killed him just as she ordered for the murder of his brother, the Prince Jaehaerys. House Caswell have proved themselves not only as traitors to the realm, but have also allowed for the murder of a Prince of the blood. You must needs pay a dear price, my lady."

As Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron turned their mounts to rejoin the rest of the army, Lady Caswell called out in anguish. "What of the people of this town, the wounded in the town sept, and the refugees that are seeking shelter here? They have done no wrong, and many are simply fleeing ahead of the warfare and destruction that _your_ army has left in its wake!"

Prince Daeron turned one last time to regard the distraught Lady Dowager of Bitterbridge. "They all share the blame for my nephew's murder as much as you do, my lady. And the punishment for murder is death." With that, the Prince galloped away, riding in the direction of the camp where his dragon Tessarion roosted. With a face as white as snow, Lady Caswell and her escort rode back across the stone bridge spanning the Mander into the town.

Lord Ormund turned to Hobert, and spoke to him in a grave tone. "Have the prisoners brought up to the front of the army, cos. It is long past time that we show them the fate of traitors."

* * *

Listening to the peaceful sound of the Mander's rushing waters, Hobert could almost imagine he was out for a ride along the Honeywine outside Oldtown. _I was scarce more than a lad in those days. The Old King still ruled then, and the Realm prospered for it_. Hobert was glad that his dear wife Joyeuse had not lived to see the days of peace of plenty that they had known since their births crumble away into warfare and strife. _I wonder what my dear sunflower would think of me now_. Hobert had been a handsome man in his youth, solid and strong from his days as a squire, and when he still cared for sparring with other knights at the Hightower. _I trained often, though I never truly distinguished myself._ The passage of time had not been kind to Hobert or the Realm, however. _Now I'm old and stout, and forced to leave the home I love to ride to war_.

"Please, Ser!" the voice behind him called, and Hobert turned to regard its source, the visions of his days of youth banished from his mind's eye. The Bastard of Bitterbridge clutched at the iron bars of the cage he was trapped in, a pleading expression spread across the parts of his face that weren't obscured by tightly-wrapped bandages. "I beg of you, let me speak with Lord Ormund and Prince Daeron. I was the castellan of this town and castle before you captured me. Let me speak with my goodsister, and bring this madness to an end before lives are needlessly lost!" Hobert frowned as he regarded the distraught knight. _All those bandages give him an almost ghoulish look_.

Hobert repeated the words that he'd heard the Prince speak at the earlier parley. "Your goodsister and the people of this town are all responsible for the death of Prince Maelor, and they will receive the punishment that all murderers receive: Death." The Bastard of Bitterbridge continued to clutch at the iron bars of the cage and plead, while Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury glared hatefully at Hobert.

A loud roar echoed throughout the sky, and Hobert looked up quickly as Tessarion flew overhead, gliding low over the Mander towards the town of Bitterbridge. A maelstrom of blue cobalt flame gushed forth from its maw, and a structure near the foot of the stone bridge spanning the Mander was quickly turned into a roaring blue pyre. As Prince Daeron continued to burn the town from atop Tessarion, Lord Ormund's army began to gallop and charge across the bridge into the blazing town, shouting battle cries. Archers several ranks deep along the banks of the Mander drew their longbows taut, before firing volley after volley of flaming arrows in a deadly arc into the already-blazing city.

"NOOOO!" Tom Flowers screamed. As the Bastard of Bitterbridge began to shriek spittle-laden curses and kick ineffectually at the locked door of the cage, Hobert watched the town across the Mander burn. His cousin's army continued to pour across the bridge into the town in a torrent of steel and death, and Hobert began to hear screams and wails drift hauntingly across the river, as the townsfolk who had not been immolated by dragonflame were accosted and put to the sword.

Across the wide waters of the Mander, Hobert began to see indistinct groups of people fleeing the burning town of Bitterbridge. Many fled northeast, further along the Roseroad. However, those groups were mercilessly run down by mounted knights and mercenaries on horseback, who ran them through with lances or hacked them down with swords.

Other townspeople ran in Hobert's direction, fleeing from the southern edge of town towards the bank of the Mander river opposite to Hobert. They began to fling themselves into the rushing waters, thrashing about and struggling to stay afloat as the water's strong current began to take hold of them. _There must be hundreds of them,_ Hobert thought with growing dismay. Men and women, young and old, strong and weak, all chose the swirling waters of the Mander over the flames of Tessarion and the swords of Lord Ormund's army. However, the rushing waters proved stronger than the townspeople that attempted to traverse them, and one by one their heads began to sink beneath the water, and did not reappear above the river's surface again.

A scarce few townspeople made it all the way to the center of the Mander before drowning, and to Hobert's surprise, one burly man made it nearly three quarters of the way across before his strength gave out. Hobert shuddered as the man's face slipped beneath the river's surface, for his facial features had become distinct enough that it seemed to Hobert as though the man's eyes were fixated directly on him. _This is wrong,_ a small voice within Hobert seemed to call out, _those people you watched die had no part in this war, yet they were slaughtered all the same_.

Hobert quashed those thoughts as soon as they came to him. _Prince Maelor, the King's last son, was butchered in this town by these selfsame townsfolk._ Hobert thought back to Prince Daeron's words. _They all share the blame for the death of the young Prince, and the punishment for murder is death_. Hobert repeated those words in his mind again and again to himself as Bitterbridge burned and its people died.

* * *

The smoke billowing all around was enough to make Hobert squint his eyes, and it took nearly all of his bearing not to begin coughing violently. _By the seven_. The sack of Bitterbridge had gone on for at least another hour, while Hobert sat atop his palfrey on the other side of the Mander and watched. The smoke had begun to rise in such massive and billowing inky plumes that the sun in the early afternoon sky had been blotted out, leaving the world painted in a dim ashen pall.

When a messenger from Lord Ormund had finally arrived requesting Hobert's presence in the town, much of the flames crackling throughout Bitterbridge had begun to die down, mostly because there were hardly any structures left standing throughout the town to provide kindling. As he had begun to ride off in the direction of the stone bridge spanning the Mander, Hobert had spared a short glance in the direction of the three prisoners in the caged wagon. The Bastard of Bitterbridge had been on his knees, clutching the iron bars of the cage he was trapped in while he watched his home burn. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, giving him the look of a corpse. Ser Alan Beesbury refused to look at Hobert, and Lord Alan Tarly spit through the bars of the cage at him as he rode by.

It had taken him some time for him to coax his horse beyond the edge of the bridge into the town itself, for his mount had recoiled at the heavy scents of smoke and blood wafting through the air. Hobert had found his cousins in the smoldering ruins of what had been Bitterbridge's town square. Ser Bryndon was cleaning several blood stains off of his longaxe, and Lord Ormund was conferring with several of his knights. He turned to regard Hobert as he approached on his palfrey. "Cousin Hobert," he began, "I trust that our prisoners are now well-enough subdued after seeing the fate of this traitorous town?"

Hobert reined in his horse in front of his cousin as he responded. "They were, cousin Ormund. None spoke even a word as I rode past them to join you in the town." Both cousin Ormund and cousin Bryndon had climbed atop their own mounts as Hobert spoke.

Bryndon smiled viciously. "Mayhaps they'll keep their mouths shut from now on, now that they've seen what fate awaits those who betray the rightful king." Hobert nodded at his cousin's words, hoping that they were true. However, he felt that they would not be so lucky as to be spared Ser Alan Beesbury and Lord Alan Tarly's vehement denunciations of all in his cousin's army as 'faithless traitors to the realm'.

Above the smoky gloom that covered the ruins of the town of Bitterbridge, the castle and seat of House Caswell stood unharmed and silent. Lord Ormund rode in its direction, accompanied by Ser Bryndon, several other Lords and landed knights, and household knights. Hobert joined, riding alongside his cousins. Prince Daeron remained in the sky, wheeling above the castle atop Tessarion. As they approached the raised main portcullis of the castle, Hobert could make out the form of a person standing atop the crenellations of the gatehouse. Reining up below the gatehouse, Hobert saw that it was Lady Melissa Caswell herself standing at its top, looking down at the large force of knights arrayed before her gates. Hobert's eyes widened when he saw the hempen rope tied around her neck as a noose.

Lady Caswell's cheeks were puffy from recently-shed tears, and when she called out to Hobert and the other men of Lord Ormund's army before her, her voice was hoarse and ragged. "Have mercy on my children, Lord," she cried out, and then threw herself from the top of the gatehouse.

Hobert quickly looked down, cringing as he heard the sharp snap of the rope pulling taut. "Mother's mercy!" he exclaimed, horrified. Risking a glance upwards, Hobert caught a brief glimpse of Lady Caswell's boots twitching violently in the air high above the ground. He did not look further up, but rather back down towards the ground.

Glancing to the side, he saw cousin Ormund looking up at the corpse of Lady Caswell dangling above the castle gate with a frown. Turning to the knights and men-at-arms assembled around him, he began to give his orders. "Put the castle garrison to the sword, but spare Lady Caswell's children. Have them brought to me." His men rode forward through the castle gate to carry out their Lord's orders.

Hobert sat in silence atop his horse as knights and men-at-arms rode past him to further whet their swords with blood. He grimaced as the swaying rope above him creaked loudly, but refused to look up and regard the body of Lady Caswell. _They were traitors, all of them_ , he thought, _and we're the King's Men, meting out the King's justice_. Hobert wished that those thoughts gave him more comfort. Around him, the wind blew, swirling the ashes of the town of Bitterbridge about him and his palfrey. The rope creaked.


	18. Maegor IV

**Maegor IV**

Maegor woke in a cold sweat. The nightmare had come yet again to plague his dreams. He had started having it not long after arriving in King's Landing, but its occurrence had been infrequent enough that he could mostly ignore it. _Now it comes every night._ Sleep seemed to offer him solace no longer, for each night he feared closing his eyes and dreaming again. Unlike many of his other dreams, Maegor had no trouble recalling the details of this particular nightmare. Though he had spent much time trying to understand and parse some meaning from it, he had yet to make any sense of the dream.

_The scent of smoke was acrid in his nose and throat, and his eyes watered and ran with tears as he staggered through the billowing fumes. Flames roared all about him, and he could feel their blistering heat as he searched desperately for an escape from the choking cloud of smoke. As he continued to stagger forward, Maegor began to see the corpses. Whole mountains of them, their eyes glassy and wide and mouths gaped in terror. The flames consumed them all, burning bright and hot. Their skin blackened and shriveled in the heat, eventually sloughing off to reveal naught but charred bones. And still, the flames burned ever hotter. The bones themselves were consumed by the flame, cracking in the extreme heat and turning to ash._

_The flames began to crackle about Maegor, and to his terror, he began to burn as well. The sensation of the flames consuming his body began as an unpleasant tingling sensation, but rapidly became more and more painful. Writhing and twisting, Maegor staggered blindly forward as the pain grew worse and worse. Breaking free of the clouds of smoke, Maegor found himself standing in a wide field before the burned husk of what appeared to be a town in the distance. Its buildings were naught but charred stone, burned timber, and ash, and from their midst flew a black dragon, flying straight towards Maegor. Though its scales were black as night, when it opened its maw and let loose with a billowing jet of flame, the flames rushed forth green._

_Maegor threw up his burning and blistered hands in a desperate and futile attempt to shield himself, and when he lowered them, he found himself standing a short distance before the Queen on flat and rocky soil. She stood alone, and Maegor was struck by the sudden sea-salt breeze blowing in the air. The world around them was cloaked in shadow, and great grey clouds hung listlessly in the sky. Maegor opened his mouth to call out to her, yet naught but ash tumbled forth from his lips. Queen Rhaenyra had a defeated and resigned expression on her face, and she looked to the sky. A bright and terrible golden sun revealed itself from where it had been hidden among the clouds, and its scorching golden light burned Queen Rhaenyra to ash. Looking upon it, Maegor fell to his knees, once again desperately raising his arms to shield himself from the painful light and heat. He was horrified to see that naught remained of his arms and hands but charred bones_.

It was then that Maegor would awake from the nightmare every time, drenched in sweat as his chest heaved with panicked breaths. _What did it all mean_? Maegor wasn't sure, but he was certain that he was having no ordinary dreams. _As far as I know, nobody has the exact same nightmare every time they close their eyes_. He rose from his cot, and crossed his small quarters to a chipped stone wash basin. Taking a tarnished pewter jug full of cool water, he poured its contents into the basin.

Dipping his hands into it, he splashed his face with the cool water. Maegor enjoyed how its rivulets ran down his face and chest, refreshing him and washing away the sweat that he'd awoken with. He tried thinking through the dream bit by bit, as he had done many times before. He was certain that he'd never seen the town that had appeared as a burned ruin in his dream, but that realization did nothing to help him understand why it had appeared in his nightmare in the first place.

What bothered Maegor more, however, was the dragon that had almost surely burned the town in his dream. _Jet-black scales, yet green flames_. Maegor knew of only one dragon that exactly matched that coloration. _Gaemon's dragon, the Cannibal_. Maegor had no idea of how to even begin trying to understand the part of his dream that had pertained to Queen Rhaenyra. _A golden sun burning her? What does that mean?_ It was all so confusing.

When he had dreamed of the Grey Ghost as a boy, the visions of the vent on the Dragonmont where it roosted and the dragon's own appearance had been exactly as Maegor had remembered them when he later visited them in person. He had later realized after the fight over the Gullet that his dream about the three dancing women and the dragon in the sea of pitch had been about that very battle. As well, he had also experienced both of those dreams multiple times, with them always happening in the exact same way with no variations or changes. _Do they inform and warn me of the future? Or am I slowly going mad?_

It seemed to him that at least some parts of his dreams were more metaphorical than exact, but they were frustratingly vague in their meaning. _Was the dragon in the sea of pitch the Prince Jacaerys, the Prince Viserys, or both?_ Gritting his teeth, Maegor sank to his knees, resting his forehead against the washbasin's cool stone. _If my previous dreams have shown me the future in at least a partially truthful way, then what horrors are we destined for based on these nightmares I've been having?_

Maegor balled his fist and pounded it against the stone floor of his quarters. _The dream makes little and less sense, and I'm so tired that I can barely focus on trying to understand it._ He wished more than anything that he could sleep again in peace, without having to fear what horrors his slumber would bring. _I'm just so tired_. As exhaustion tried to force his eyes closed, Maegor shook his head and staggered to his feet, before dunking his head into the basin again. Opening the door of his chambers, he peered into the hallway beyond. The torches were burning, and the corridor was devoid of activity.

Closing his door, Maegor sat at the edge of his cot, cradling his head in his hands. _It's as I thought. The dawn is a long way off still_. He barely caught himself before slipping into an exhausted slumber, still slumped forward with his head in his hands. Maegor couldn't decide whether he felt more like raging or weeping in frustration. _I can't sleep because of the nightmare, but I'm so tired when I'm awake that I can barely keep myself from nodding off into sleep_. Maegor wished that he had something to read or someone to talk to in order to help him stay awake. Sitting up in his cot with his bare back leaned against the cool stone of the wall behind him, Maegor sat and silently waited for dawn.

* * *

When the new day finally came, Maegor wasted no time in starting his morning. Washing himself with fresh water brought in by a servant, Maegor then dressed and was helped into his armor. The seeds' presence in court that day had been requested by the Queen, for she wished to officially accept the fealty and swords of multiple parties that had arrived in the city throughout the past week.

The first group to arrive had been around one thousand men by ship from the Vale, sent by Lady Jeyne Arryn. Maegor had seen the army's triumphant entry into the city, with their proud knights in shining armor atop majestic warhorses, followed by grizzled men-at-arms and archers. _I would've expected the Lady of the Vale to send more men to support the Queen's cause than that_ , Maegor had thought, but he hadn't stated those thoughts aloud. Some swords would make a greater difference than none, and with the Hightower army drawing ever closer, it was important that the Queen have as many troops as possible to fight on the ground in battle to support her dragonriders in the sky.

Later that same week, ships had arrived from White Harbor in the North, carrying several hundred knights and men-at-arms sworn to House Manderly, led by both of Lord Manderly's sons, Ser Medrick and Ser Torrhen. Maegor had been amused when he saw that many of the men-at-arms from house Manderly carried tridents instead of spears. _I suppose they kill a man just as well as a spear_ , Maegor had mused.

Departing from the Dragonpit on his gelding, Maegor began riding towards the Red Keep, a route that he had taken so often that he was confident he could traverse with his eyes closed. _It would be best that I don't_ , Maegor thought, _for in my current state I'd likely fall asleep atop my horse_. As he rode across the city, he lifted his helmet's visor, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun on his face, and the faint cool sea breeze. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys or Aegon's High Hill, one could smell the salt of the sea, but as soon as they descended down from either hill, such smells were replaced with far less savory ones.

Maegor had thought the refuse pile at the edge of his village on Dragonstone smelled strongly, but he had quickly realized that cities reeked as badly as a thousand refuse piles. _It only gets worse the further you ride down any of the city's three hills_. However, Maegor could guess at why. _The city's poorest denizens scrabble out an existence at its lowest depths, and they can't spare the coin to have people clean some of the refuse from their streets_. The rains weren't on the side of the poor either. Every time a storm came through King's Landing, much of the shit and other filth in the gutters was washed down the city's three hills, accumulating in the lowest wynds and alleys of the city.

As he reached the southern base of the Hill of Rhaenys, Maegor found himself in Flea Bottom. While many nobles and knights avoided this part of the city as though every person that lived there was infested with some sort of plague, Maegor found the grungy community fascinating. It was a dangerous place to be sure, but Maegor also found that he admired the tenacity of King's Landing's poorest denizens. They had little and less, but still they went about their lives with vigor, determined to scrape out their own little sliver of the world to call their own.

Maegor had made several trips out from the Dragonpit in his roughspun attire, and he had found that Flea Bottom was the most interesting place to simply walk about and observe. He always had a sharp eye on his coin purse, and a dagger ready to defend himself. Regardless, Maegor still found himself more at home amongst the grimy, shouting crowds of Flea Bottom than the perfumed, courtly residents of the Red Keep. _They give me lands and titles, but in my heart I've always been Maegor, the fisherman's boy_.

His journey eventually brought him to the top of Aegon's High Hill, and the raised large bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep. Upon seeing his face, the knight presiding over the Gold Cloaks defending the gate waved Maegor through, and he rode into the yard beyond. Maegor dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a stableboy, before entering the Red Keep itself.

Maegor had some time before the ceremony that he was expected to attend, so he found himself walking in the direction of the training yard, rather than the Great Hall. Upon arriving, he was not surprised to see men already sparring, riding at rings, and firing arrows at targets. Maegor removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm, leaning against an alcove and watching people train. Though he was tempted to join them, he did not want to dirty his armor before the ceremony he was to attend. _It would not do for me to stand at attention near the foot of the Iron Throne covered in dust and dirt. The Queen's Lords and highborn knights are always looking for ways to say I'm still a bumbling peasant, despite my elevation in status_.

Ulf White and Hugh Hammer were already the subject of rumor and controversy, and Maegor by no means wished to join them. After the feast celebrating Prince Joffrey Velaryon's investiture as the Prince of Dragonstone, both seeds had ridden out from the Keep into the city to continue their revelry. By the night's end, Ulf had ridden through Flea Bottom in naught but his golden spurs, and Hugh had beat one of the Queen's own knights to death during a dispute over a maiden on the Street of Silk. _It's behavior like that which makes the Queen wary of giving us larger rewards,_ Maegor thought in annoyance.

At the sound of footsteps, Maegor turned to regard the man approaching him. Gyles Yronwood grinned at Maegor, inclining his head at him. "Though I'm used to having the ladies of the court watching us train, I must say I was not expecting you to join them today, Ser."

Maegor smiled back at the Dornish knight. "An audience is an audience, Ser. Shall I offer you my favor and swoon when you win a sparring match?" He fluttered his eyelashes in an over-exaggerated fashion.

Gyles laughed aloud. "Good gods. That won't be necessary, I should think." He nodded in the direction of the hallways leading away from the training yard. "Are you attending the ceremony today? I can only assume that the Queen would expect your presence."

Maegor nodded. "I will be. That is why I've not joined in the sparring. What about you, Ser Yronwood? I trust you've not tired of all the pageantry just yet?" Gyles was dressed in his armor built in the Dornish style, along with a fine silk doublet bearing the sigil of his house.

Gyles nodded. "I will be. As a knight in the Queen's retinue, I wish for her to look out into the crowd and see me standing there as often as possible. I owe her my fealty, but it couldn't hurt to remind her of my continued loyalty." He gave Maegor a sardonic grin. "Many in her court were none too happy that she accepted a Dornishman into her service, and would jump at any opportunity to see my head struck off." Hefting his goldenheart recurved bow, he nodded in the direction of the targets. "I too wish to not dirty myself before the ceremony. That's why I've been using this morn as a chance to brush up on my skills with the bow. You should join me." Before Maegor could respond, Gyles had already turned and began walking towards the targets.

Maegor smiled. _It appears that his request is non-negotiable_. He followed the Dornishman over to the archery range. Nocking an arrow, Gyles drew the string of his bow back and fired in what seemed to Maegor as one fluid motion. The arrow slammed into the dead center of the target, quivering slightly. Firing several more shots in quick succession, Ser Gyles made a ring of arrows around the first. Amazed, Maegor began to clap. With a grin, the Dornish knight gave Maegor a flourishing bow.

"Amazing, Ser!" Maegor began, "I've never seen such skill! You make it look so effortless." Looking at the placement of the arrows on the target, Maegor shook his head in amazement.

Gyles smiled. "I promise you, Ser Maegor, it is anything _but_ effortless. I've trained a long time to fire with such precision." He stroked his bow lovingly. "This bow also helps. There is no finer material to make a bow than goldenheart wood. It cost my father a small fortune." Gyles frowned sadly after mentioning his father, but Maegor did not press for further details. _I may have more in common with this man than I thought_.

Shaking his head, he turned to Maegor. Gyles pointed at an empty target, with a longbow and quiver of arrows leaned against it. "Would you like to try, Ser Maegor? I can give you some advice, free of charge." Gyles grinned.

Maegor thought for a moment. "I'm not so sure, Ser. I've never fired a bow in my life before. As well, I haven't been sleeping well, so I'm not sure if I'd make a very good student in my current state."

Gyles looked more closely at Maegor's face, and his grin was replaced with a look of mild concern as he regarded the large dark bags that Maegor knew sat beneath his eyes. "You're telling no lie, that is for certain. I hadn't noticed before you mentioned it. Mayhaps you could speak to the Grand Maester about a draught to help you sleep?"

Maegor smiled sadly. _If only going to sleep was my largest concern. It is what awaits me in my dreams that frightens me_. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Gyles, but I am optimistic that these difficulties will pass in time. Besides, I believe that the ceremony's beginning is not far off now. I think I will make my way to the Great Hall now."

Gyles nodded at Maegor, and began making his way out of the yard. _To return his bow to his quarters, I presume_. Maegor turned and left the yard as well, re-entering the hallways of the Keep and beginning his journey to the Great Hall.

* * *

Standing at his place amongst the other seeds to the right of the foot of the Iron Throne, Maegor couldn't help but remember the rumors of the night that the remains of Prince Maelor were returned to the Queen. Maegor had not been there when it happened, but he had heard that when the riders presented the little Prince's head to the Queen, she had wept before ordering it burned. The usurper Aegon was undoubtedly a traitor and enemy to the Queen's realm, but his children? _First the Prince Jaehaerys, and now the Prince Maelor._ One had been murdered before his mother's eyes, while the other had died at the hands of a crowd seeking to collect a bounty _from_ the Queen. _Why must the children suffer for the sins of the father?_ The usurper Aegon was still at large. _What fairness is there in the possibility that he still lives, while his two innocent sons suffered and died?_ Such were thoughts that Maegor did his best not to dwell on.

The Great Hall was bustling with observers, and the Queen sat atop the Iron Throne, with her consort Prince Daemon and her heir Prince Joffrey sitting on lower steps. The ceremony began with much pomp and circumstance, as the Manderly brothers approached the Iron Throne first, kneeling before the Queen and renewing their oaths of fealty and loyalty to her. Maegor supposed that they had been given pride of place because they were soon to be good-kin to the Queen through the marriage of their youngest sister to Prince Joffrey. Ser Medrick had the look of a strong and skilled knight, while it seemed that Ser Torrhen had a greater appetite for food than training in the yard.

When it was the turn of the leaders of the force of Valemen to present themselves to the Queen, several knights approached the Iron Throne and knelt, swearing their swords and fealty to the Queen. All bore different sigils on their surcoats. _It appears that command of this force is split between men of several of the Vale's leading houses_. Maegor was surprised that none bore the moon and falcon of House Arryn. _It seems that none of Lady Jeyne's close kin sailed with this army_.

The knight of greatest note was Ser Willam Royce, the youthful grandson and heir of Lord Gunthor Royce of Runestone. He was tall and handsome, with curly auburn hair and grey eyes. When he drew his sword as part of his oath to the Queen, Maegor saw that it was Valyrian Steel. _Ser Willam easily lives up to all the vaunted tales of chivalrous knights from the Vale of Arryn_. Maegor grinned. _Ser Gyles will have some competition for the attention of the ladies of the court_. As the Queen graciously accepted the support of the men from the Vale to her cause, Maegor took note of how Ser Willam seemed to glare at Prince-consort Daemon. _What quarrel do the Royces of Runestone have with the Rogue Prince?_

The ceremony came to an end not long after, and many began making their way out of the Great Hall. Ulf and Hugh had already begun making their way to the Great Hall's massive doors, and Maegor took note of the disdainful glances that each seed received from the Lords, knights, and other courtiers throughout the hall. _They've both given all the highborn a reason to whisper behind their backs after their follies following the feast for Prince Joffrey_. Maegor would not mourn the loss of whatever status the two men had garnered since taming dragons for the Queen's cause. _Ser Hugh has always seemed a very cruel man, and Ser Ulf… that sot's downfall has been a long time coming_. Maegor forced himself to stop glaring at the drunken seed's back and look elsewhere.

Looking in the direction of the Iron Throne, Maegor saw Gaemon still standing in its shadow. The Lady Baela walked past him, trailing her father, but Maegor did not miss the way she mischievously smiled at Gaemon as she passed. With his helmet's visor up, Maegor could see that Gaemon returned the Lady Baela's smile. _What was that about, Gaemon?_ Maegor wasn't sure he liked the implications of what he had just seen.

Looking at his friend, Maegor was reminded again of his nightmare. _Does the Cannibal have something to do with the burned town that I saw in my dream? The dragon in my dream had black scales and blew green flames._ Maegor knew that Gaemon's dragon was as wild and cruel a dragon as any currently living, and he also remembered how Gaemon had struggled to bend the creature to his will in their time at Dragonstone. _Will his dragon reject him and go rogue, wreaking havoc? Or will it cause such carnage under the control of its rider?_ Maegor forced himself to stop thinking in such a way. _If Gaemon were to prove false and cause such great destruction with his dragon… I don't know what I'd do._ Gaemon saw Maegor looking in his direction, and nodded at him with a grin. _Please, let my suspicions be nothing more than paranoid speculation_ , Maegor thought, _Gaemon is all I have left_. His friend had always been as close as a brother to him, and with the deaths of Maegor's father and brothers, Gaemon was the _only_ brother remaining to him.

Maegor was unable to bring himself to return his friend's smile, and began to walk from the Great Hall. _Am I going mad? I suspect my closest friend of possible treason based on a nightmare?_ But the other dreams involving dragons and flame he'd had before had proved true, or at least in some way mirrored the truth. Maegor was torn between feeling extreme shame over suspecting his friend of treachery, and fear over what form the future might take based on his nightmare. Gaemon was the only person he trusted enough to talk about his dreams with, but Maegor was unable in this case to talk with _even_ him about it. He felt as though the nightmare was inescapable, seizing his mind whenever he slept, and haunting his waking thoughts. _I just need to think it through more clearly_. But in his sleep-deprived state, clarity of thought was a luxury that he didn't have.

* * *

The city of King's Landing was in a festive state since word of a great victory had begun to flow into the city from the southern Riverlands. Ser Criston Cole, the traitorous Lord Commander of the usurper Aegon's Kingsguard and his Hand of the King, had marched his army into an ambush that was set by the same men who had annihilated the army of the Westerlands. It was a quick and bloody affair, and as devastating as the battle along the God's Eye had been. Ser Criston was killed, his army butchered, and its few survivors scattered to the wind. The Queen's fool Mushroom had gleefully called the slaughter the "Butcher's Ball", and the name had spread quickly, soon on the lips of every person in the city of King's Landing.

 _Such news is most auspicious_ , Maegor thought. Not long before the news of the Butcher's Ball had arrived, word of the brutal sack of Bitterbridge had reached King's Landing. Maegor had been appalled when he heard of the actions of the Hightower army; how they had burned, stabbed, and drowned the populace of the town, while driving its Lady to commit suicide and taking her children prisoner. _An army of animals_ , Maegor had thought, enraged. He had initially heard whispers about whether the Queen should consider treating with the army before they continued on their brutal path northeast. _Let myself and the Grey Ghost treat with them,_ Maegor had thought, _and I'll send them all screaming and burning to the Seventh Hell_.

However, the news of the Butcher's Ball had come not long after, bringing a much-needed sense of relief to the city. There were still nay-sayers who feared the Hightower army and Lord Borros Baratheon to the south, but with the end of Criston Cole and his men, there were no longer looming threats to the north of the city of King's Landing. All the same, Maegor hoped that the Queen would soon allow her dragonriders a more active role in the war. _It is long past time that we brought all this bloodshed and suffering to an end_.

Though he grieved for the people of Bitterbridge, Maegor had hoped against hope that its sack explained his nightmare. However, he feared that it was not the truth. _The sack of Bitterbridge does not in any way explain the black dragon_. Maegor still understood little and less about the part of the dream involving Queen Rhaenyra and the sun that burned her. _Is Dorne going to invade?_ Maegor knew that the Martell family's sigil bore a sun. _Mayhaps they mean to take advantage of the chaos and disorganization caused by the war to attack the realm?_ Maegor had no answers, and their lack had begun to deeply bother him. _We seem to be on the precipice of something truly awful, yet I feel completely powerless to understand and prevent it_.

He still suffered from a lack of sleep, yet Maegor forced himself to do so nonetheless. The nightmare came every time he closed his eyes, but Maegor was resigned to it. _If I must needs suffer through it to have enough rest to try to understand it when I'm awake, then it is a burden I will bear_. However, Maegor had also begun to realize the importance of finding ways in which to forget about the nightmare for a time. _If all I did was sit and think about my dreams, then I would truly go mad_. He had found that alcohol helped, but Maegor did not wish to end up a sot like Ulf. _If I spend my time drinking away the dreams, I will only replace one problem with another._

Maegor had tried to find other ways in which to occupy his mind with other thoughts, and the mummer's show had provided him with a perfect opportunity. From what he had learned, the troupe of mummers were Westerosi, and specialized in tragedies based off of the tales and legends of Westeros. They had only recently arrived in King's Landing, and Maegor had missed their opening night, when they regaled the enthusiastic denizens of Flea Bottom with their own version of the tale of Florian the Fool and Jonquil.

As he stood amongst a packed crowd wearing his roughspun clothing, Maegor waited for them to perform the tale of Galladon of Morne. The place of their performance was a large and grubby winesink in the depths of Flea Bottom, and entry had cost a copper. The people around Maegor jostled and cursed as they tried to secure an ideal means of viewing the grimy stage in the light of the greasy tallow candles burning throughout the winesink's interior. Maegor allowed himself a small smile. _My size can be bothersome at times, but I won't deny that it is helpful in situations such as these_. Though he stood near the back of the crowd, Maegor had no problem seeing the stage because he stood taller than nearly everyone in the room.

"Watch it, ya little shit!" a voice spat, and Maegor turned in time to see a small boy in patched and dirt-stained clothes receive a clout on the ear from a man that he tried to squeeze past, falling on his arse. The boy stuck out his tongue in defiance as he scrambled back to his feet, and began hopping from foot to foot in a vain attempt to glimpse the stage.

With an amused smile, Maegor beckoned at the boy, and the small lad approached him slowly, a wary expression across his gaunt face. Taking a knee, Maegor pointed at his shoulders. "Hop aboard, lad. Unless you're a frog in disguise, I don't think jumping about will help you see the stage any better."

The boy considered for a moment, before his face split into a wide, crooked grin. "Thankee, master!" he said, and Maegor allowed the boy to climb onto his shoulders before standing back up.

"Seven Hells!" the boy yelped, "do ya drink tree sap?" Maegor turned his head to give him an inquisitive and altogether confused look. Grinning down at him from his perch atop Maegor's shoulders, the boy continued: "my ma used to say that little boys who drank tree sap grew as tall as trees!" With a small pout, the boy then crossed his arms. "We don't got any trees down in Flea Bottom, though."

Maegor snorted, and then began to laugh. _How good it feels to just laugh_. Smiling back at the boy, Maegor responded. "No tree sap, I'm afraid. But I did eat a lot of fish. Mayhaps that helps." The boy nodded his head gravely, as though Maegor had imparted upon him a great secret. It was then that a mummer ran onto the stage and blew a tarnished horn, catching the attention of all the assembled spectators. _And so the show begins_ , Maegor thought.

What followed was an entertaining tale of honor, love, lust, betrayal, and just about everything in between. Ser Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight, was the younger brother of the Petty King of Morne, a seat on the eastern half of the isle of Tarth. His valor was so great that the Maiden herself fell in love with him and granted him an enchanted sword, the Just Maid. Ser Galladon used the sword but thrice in his adventures, once to kill a kraken, once to kill an evil King of Giants, and once to slay a dragon.

Though he returned home to Morne a hero, Ser Galladon's goodsister and the Queen of Morne, Morgana, lusted after him, and when spurned plotted her revenge with foul sorceries. She used her sorcery to force her husband and Galladon's older brother, the King of Morne, to challenge Ser Galladon to a duel to the death. Ser Galladon, the most puissant and honorable knight that he was, refused to raise a sword against his own brother in the duel, and was slain. His brother then woke from the evil Morgana's spell, and seeing that he had killed his brother and had become a kinslayer, fell upon his sword. Thus was the fall of the House of Morne. In her grief, the Maiden cursed Morgana to forever haunt the castle ruins as a ghost, never to find peace in the afterlife.

After he had let down the boy from his shoulders, Maegor left the winesink and began to ascend the Hill of Rhaenys, back towards the Dragonpit. He had thoroughly enjoyed the mummers' show, and Maegor wondered how much of the tale was rooted in any sort of truth. Maegor knew that the eastern side of Tarth was abandoned, for he remembered hearing tales from his father about the day that he learned that Prince Aemon of Dragonstone had died fighting Myrish pirates on Tarth. _I wonder if the ruins of the seat of the Petty Kings of Morne still stand,_ Maegor mused.

As he continued on his ascent up the southern side of the Hill of Rhaenys, Maegor reconsidered his nightmare. _My dreams of dragons and fire are in some ways like a mummer's show_ , Maegor thought, _for they are full of metaphors and symbolism, and I will not understand the true meaning of it all until after something important has happened_. The thought did not assuage Maegor's dread, however. _If my nightmare is akin to a mummer's rendition of the future, I fear that the finale will please none but the Stranger_.


	19. Gaemon VI

**Gaemon VI**

Glancing at the sky, Gaemon didn't see any signs of snow. The day had been gray and rainy to be sure, but so far the weather had not seen fit to corroborate the Citadel's decree that winter had arrived. _It seems fitting that this war would mark the beginning of a long and brutal winter._ The more superstitious would probably choose to attribute the onset of winter to the displeasure of the Gods. He wasn't sure what he believed, but he was certain the Gods had little interest in whoever sat the Iron Throne. _Perhaps this entire war has simply been a source of cosmic entertainment to them_.

It certainly seemed at times as though the war was taking place on some sort of divine cyvasse board. News continued to arrive daily, tied to the feet of ravens. The Red Kraken's forces had taken Fair Isle, and it seemed as though the Ironborn had the Lannisters on the back foot. _That likely has much and more to do with the forces of the Rock rotting in the Riverlands._ Regrettably, however, dark wings also brought dark words, as the saying went. For every success, there was a setback. The most recent of which had been the loss of Bitterbridge. Gaemon's fist clenched. _Bitterbridge wasn't lost. It was wiped off of the map._ When word had first arrived, the court had been shocked at the brutality of the sack. The Caswells had assured the Queen that they had had nothing to do with her nephew's unfortunate demise. That had mattered little and less to the Hightowers, however. Reports arrived daily from Tumbleton, detailing the vast streams of refugees that arrived daily, begging to be allowed inside the town's walls.

As if the situation in the Reach was not bad enough, the situation in the Riverlands continued to be infuriating. Prince Aemond continued to burn village after village, punishing Lords and smallfolk alike for their 'treasonous allegiance'. It was infuriating. _I care not how large Vhagar has grown. If Aemond were to be hunted down and forced to face the likes of Caraxes, the Cannibal, Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost, Vhagar would be ripped to shreds._ Instead of action, however, they had been told to remain at their posts. Reports arrived almost daily of Aemond's depredations, each Lord beseeching the Queen to lend her dragons in their defense.

While his time in King's Landing had been by no means unenjoyable, this ceaseless waiting was maddening. He wasn't even certain what the Queen was waiting for. Forces had arrived from the Vale and the North, and word had come that Cregan Stark had begun his march from Winterfell, having taken the last several months to assemble a savage host of Northmen outside his gates. As Winter fell across the continent, its sons prepared to make their wrath known. _The war may finally be drawing to a close_ , he thought to himself. _The war should have already BEEN over_ , rose a voice, unbidden.

As he wrestled with these thoughts, he rode under the Red Keep's massive portcullis alongside the other seeds. Dismounting at the stables, he handed the reins to one of the many stable boys in attendance, before turning to face the others. Each of them presented quite the formidable sight in their black plate, with their winged helms concealing their features. Only their physical shapes betrayed who lurked beneath each suit. Ulf's pale hair stuck out from beneath his helm, flowing over the black gorget, while Hugh's unmistakable barrel chest heaved heavily as he dismounted. Maegor was noticeable based on his height alone, standing a few inches taller than both Hugh and Gaemon. Even Nettles looked imposing in her black mail, almost appearing as though she were a Child of the Forest ready to do battle. The moment she saw his eyes on her, however, she ruined the image by performing one of the worst imitations of a curtsey he'd ever seen. Afterwards, she gave him one of her characteristic gap-toothed grins, as if to say: _bask in my feminine charms, peasant._

Chuckling from beneath his helm, he heard someone clear his throat behind them, evidently to get their attention. Turning, he found himself face to face with Ser Rayford Lothston.

"The Queen awaits your presence, dragonseeds. If you'll follow me?" Despite phrasing his words as a question, Lothston took no time to wait for a response. Walking briskly across the courtyard, he led them towards the Great Hall, whose great doors were opened for them to allow them to enter.

Upon entering, Gaemon was immediately able to ascertain that today's audience would be one of note. The great bronze braziers burned brightly, and many Lords and Ladies of note stood in attendance along the sides of the hall. Gaemon recognized many faces as he passed, taking note of Ser Willam Royce and the Manderly brothers near the front of the crowd. The heat within the hall had already evidently proved to be of great discomfort to Ser Torrhen, who was dabbing constantly at his reddening forehead with a kerchief. At the foot of the throne on the left stood the Seasnake, along with his grandson Addam, both bedecked in their Velaryon silver and sea greens. On the right stood Prince Joffrey, Prince Daemon, Lady Baela, and Princes Aegon and Viserys, all in black and blood-red silks. And crowning the whole assembly, staring imperiously down from the Iron Throne itself, sat Queen Rhaenyra, her silver-gold hair tied in a long braid.

It was only after he had surveyed the hall that he realized a man was kneeling at the base of the Iron Throne. Given his appearance, Gaemon thought he might be a hedge knight, or some kind of free-rider, as he was outfitted mostly in uncolored boiled leathers, with only a dented breastplate and pot helm in the way of true armor. As the seeds took their places to the right side of the throne, Rhaenyra began to speak.

"Now that my fine riders have arrived, I beseech you to once more share your words, good man. Rise, and share your words with those assembled."

Rising, the man glanced about the court, before he returned his gaze to his feet.

"My Queen, I have come bringing word from Tumbleton. The Hightower host grows nearer by the day, and we fear that they will bring the Blue Queen to bear against the walls." Pausing, he removed his helm, running his hand through his thick brown hair. "I have served your grace since the beginning of this war. I've been fighting for your rights since the Battle of the Red Fork. Many of the men at Tumbleton 'ave been as well. We fear no men, your Grace, but we fear dragons. Prithee, send us lot some of your dragons. With such beasts at our back, we'll turn the traitors aside, you have my word."

Murmurs resounded throughout the hall. Gaemon gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and when he cast a glance at Baela, he saw that her knuckles were white from gripping her hands together so tightly. Grinning beneath his helm, he was pleased to see she felt the same. _It should come as no surprise,_ he thought _, for we are both the Blood of the Dragon_. The Queen had pursed her lips as the petitioner had spoken, tapping her nails on the blade she was resting her arm upon. Finally, she began to speak.

"Might I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, good ser?"

The man looked up, before remembering himself and returning his gaze to the floor. "The pleasure is all mine, your Grace, I assure you. I am called Tristifer of Oldstones."

The Queen offered him a thin smile. "Well, Tristifer of Oldstones, it seems you are well on your way towards fighting one hundred battles. Since you have been so true to my cause, I have no intention of letting you lose your one-hundredth, or any, for that matter. I will grant your request. It is time my enemies remembered that I too command dragons, and in far greater numbers than they."

Many throughout the court chuckled politely at the Queen's response to the petitioner, and Gaemon was fairly certain that it must have been rather witty. _I wonder what that bit about the one hundred battles meant_. He would have to ask Baela what she had been referencing later. For now, however, he was more interested in her decree. _It sounds as though we may finally be sent to war_ , he thought, feeling the anticipation rise within him. The Queen's next words confirmed it.

"Kneel, my riders."

Barely able to contain his joy and excitement, Gaemon strode to the base of the throne and knelt, feeling the others kneel alongside him.

"In response to my subject's most ardent plea, I have decided to dispatch you once more to war. I have come to the conclusion that my traitorous brothers must all be given to the Stranger. With the Usurper in hiding, only two remain in the field." She studied them each for a moment, before continuing. "I hereby decree that Ser Ulf and Ser Hugh will be dispatched with their mounts to the city of Tumbleton. I charge you both with its defense, and furthermore, I beseech you to slay my treasonous youngest brother and to scatter the rabble that even now makes its way up the Roseroad." Her eyes fell on the remaining three seeds. "Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor, I charge each of you with flying to Pinkmaiden, to reinforce Lord Piper and his men, and to begin a search for my _kinslaying_ brother Aemond. In order to _ensure_ both he and his dragon are destroyed, I hereby also charge the Lady Nettles and mine own Lord Husband, Prince Daemon, to fly to Maidenpool to assist in this hunt. Positioned so, the four of you ought to have little trouble cornering the little viper betwixt you. Once you've rid the realm of him, bring me _his head_."

Judging from the reactions of those standing at the base of the throne, this decree was not surprising. _Perhaps the Queen has been preparing her response for longer than I realised._ Prince Daemon was smiling wickedly, and turning to the Queen, performed a flourishing bow as he accepted her charge.

Slowly, Gaemon felt himself and the other seeds collectively rise. Almost in unison, their voices called out together in response. "As you will it, it shall be done, your Grace. Fire and Blood!"

* * *

The Cannibal stirred as soon as he entered its chamber, its scales rasping along the stone floor as it uncoiled. It gazed at him with an expression that almost looked akin to curiosity as he beckoned for others to enter the chamber, carrying the black chains and other apparatuses to affix the saddle upon its back. The work went quickly, as evidently the dragon had grown more accustomed to the presence of others. Compared to its earlier fits, it was largely content to simply allow the items to be placed, knowing it would be receiving a meal afterwards. _Say what they may about its temperament, the beast has always been clever_ , he thought to himself as the work was completed. Several men followed the attendants in, bearing a freshly slaughtered ox for the dragon to eat. As it charred and consumed its meal, Gaemon heard the murmuring of voices and the whispering of dresses as a party entered the chamber. Turning, he found himself face to face with the Queen, her sons, and her attendants. Instinctively, he knelt.

"Rise, Ser Gaemon." As he rose, the Queen regarded him imperiously, her purple eyes considering him. "I have come to the Pit in order to see all of my riders off, and to give my final orders." Holding her hand behind her, a servant passed her a sealed letter, bearing the wax imprint of a three-headed dragon. "Present this missive to Lord Piper upon your arrival. Inside, I have asked him to treat both Ser Maegor and yourself with all the courtesy that would be expected of him were I myself present." She paused. "While you are away, you will still answer only to me. Lord Piper will be informed to accommodate your every need in order to bring the Kinslayer to justice as speedily as possible. I am loath to foist the burdens of command on one so inexperienced, but King's Landing simply could not do without my Syrax or the mounts of Prince Joffrey or Lady Baela."

Gaemon nodded. "I understand, your Grace. Neither I nor Maegor will let you down. You can count on us, as well as the Prince and Lady Nettles, to scour every corner of the Riverlands until the enemy has been flushed out and torn from the sky."

A thin, cruel smile appeared on the Queen's lips, as she appeared to be pondering the thought. "It will be a shame to lose Vhagar. The Emerald Terror is the last of the Conqueror's dragons. Her death will herald the end of an era." She sighed. "Perhaps that is for the best. Only a few years ago, many Lords grumbled about kneeling to a woman. Perhaps the old must die to usher in the new. With the death of my _half-brother_ , we shall show them the futility of their resistance."

With those words, the Queen turned, striding out of the chamber, her posture perfect, looking every bit a Queen. An attendant performed a hasty bow in his direction before passing her sealed missive to him. As she left, Gaemon couldn't help but feel that her words would prove correct. _We may indeed stand at a precipice_. Only time would tell if taking the plunge would prove worthwhile. As he pondered what was to come, Baela passed by, following the Queen's entourage. She gave him the slightest of winks, and as she did, a piece of folded parchment slid from her sleeve, coming to rest at his feet. He watched the Queen's party exit the chamber, apparently none the wiser, before stooping to pick it up and tucking it away in his riding satchel. _Best to read it later_. Turning, he climbed atop the Cannibal, uncoiling his dragon whip. Below, attendants ran past either side of the dragon, stopping at either side of the great bronze and iron doors to the rear of the chamber. The hinges protested as the great doors were dragged open, revealing the city beneath them. With its chains undone, the dragon quickly crawled across the stone, smoke billowing from its maw in anticipation at its first taste of fresh air in a long while. Once it had cleared the walls, it began to heave its wings mightily, slowly clawing its way into the air.

Whilst the evening sky remained gray and cloudy, Gaemon could not help but revel in the beauty and majesty of the scene that played out. As he and the Cannibal raced into the air, they circled the Dragonpit, and below the doors of the structure were thrown open as other dragons soared outwards and upwards. Silverwing, gleaming in what little sunlight streamed from above, flew to join them, followed closely by the bronze Vermithor. Blood-red Caraxes was next, uttering an ear-splitting shriek to express its joy with its newfound freedom. Next came the Grey Ghost, covering the distance into the clouds much more quickly on account of its speed and smaller size. Lastly came the Sheepstealer, roaring its greetings from a mud brown maw. For a few moments, each rider allowed their dragons to bank and soar above the city with one another simply to enjoy the ecstasy of finally being able to fly again. The first to depart the circle were Ulf and Hugh, who guided their beasts to the southwest. Afterwards, Gaemon raised an armored arm to wave goodbye to Nettles, who waved a mailed fist back in return. Turning, he cracked his whip and urged his mount to begin its path following the Blackwater Rush, following the instructions he had been given earlier. _We need only to follow the river until its headwaters, turning northwest at the town of Stoney Sept. Afterwards Pinkmaiden itself is but a short distance away_.

As he enjoyed the simple joy of the winds buffeting him as he flew, he rummaged about his riding satchel, finding one of the biscuits he had stored away for the journey. Given that this was to be his longest flight yet, he commended himself for thinking to bring them. Opening his visor, he took a bite, relishing the taste of its buttery folds as he gazed at the fields and forests fly by beneath him. The wind whipped coldly about him, and he turned his gaze about him until he spotted the Grey Ghost a few hundred feet behind him, following as best it could despite being buffeted in the strong winds. _I wonder if Maegor thought to bring a bite to eat,_ he thought with a smile. Finishing his snack, turned back in the saddle and settled into it, preparing for the long flight ahead.

* * *

It was well into the early hours of the morning when they finally passed Stoney Sept, torchlight from its inns and other buildings shining up from the otherwise black fields below. From there, they had taken their course northwest, following what must have been the foothills of the Westerlands. When they had passed over a rather wide river, he had realised that they must have missed their mark, so they doubled back and followed its currents southwest, assuming it to be the Red Fork. A short time later, Gaemon was pleased to see the outline of castle spires and turrets on the horizon. The sun was beginning to rise behind them as they made their gradual descent, and he was able to begin making out a few farming villages and hamlets nestled amongst the hills as they approached. Perched atop one of the largest hills for leagues around, the castle itself was moderately sized, but given its vantage point, clearly dominated the surrounding lands. Just a few leagues to the north the Red Fork continued on its lazy course towards the trident. As both dragons approached, the Sept's bells began to ring furiously at first, but after a few moments more rhythmically as the defenders evidently realized they were not under attack. Gaemon scowled beneath his visor. _The sight of dragons in these parts has only meant terror for the people below for the better part of a year._ He clutched the handle of his whip tightly. _Maegor and I will have to rectify that._

As the Cannibal made its final descent, it let out a rumbling roar, which was echoed by the Grey Ghost. Circling the castle thrice in ever lower circles, he finally brought his dragon to rest outside its walls on the hill's gentle slopes. Maegor landed nearby, and both were in the process of undoing their saddle chains when the gates of the castle were thrown open, revealing an impromptu procession that made its way down the hill to greet them. Judging by the naked maiden dancing on his tabard, the group was led by Lord Piper, whose red hair fell in dense curls about his head. As the lord approached, Gaemon could see the beginnings of a wispy mustache growing about his upper lip. Behind the Lord came a Septon, a Maester, and several knights, along with the better part of the castle's garrison, which appeared to be composed mostly of older men and green boys, clutching their spears tightly.

As the party approached, Maegor took his place beside him, and began to speak quietly. "It appears that we've already missed most of the war, Gaemon. I can think of no greater sign of grievous losses than levies composed solely of the young and old."

He nodded slightly in response. "I thought the same. But we'd best not point it out to them. Mayhaps these boys lost fathers at the Red Fork, or at Acorn Hall. It'd be cruel to remind them. Besides, Lord Piper seems to be doing the best he can to give us as grand a reception as is possible given the circumstances."

A few moments later, the Lord and his procession had reached the two seeds. The young man bowed low before he began to speak: "Greetings, good Sers. We of House Piper are honored to once more be the hosts to dragonriders. Your arrival gladdens our hearts, as Vhagar has burned villages only a few leagues away. Mayhaps Aemond intended to strike us next."

With a wave of his hand, he beckoned the Septon forward. The older man brought forward a loaf of bread, fresh from the castle's kitchens, as well as a wooden bowl of salt. Gaemon and Maegor each tore a piece from the warm loaf, dipping it in the salt before consuming it. To do so, they each had to remove their helms, and Gaemon was sure he did not miss a quickly suppressed look of surprise flit across Lord Piper's features when they did so. _He's probably shocked to see we look so alike. Was that what I looked like to Prince Jacaerys when he bid me to rise?_ He felt for the fallen Prince at that moment, wondering how many times he'd received looks that conveyed such subtle shock or disappointment.

Clearing his throat, he responded to the Lord. "We thank you for your hospitality, my Lord. We have every intention of rooting the Kinslayer out and bringing him to justice."

Stanton Piper smiled. "Before I show you about the castle, might we be introduced to your mounts? Pinkmaiden has not been host to such creatures since the progresses of the Old King."

Gaemon nodded. Turning, he walked a few paces back to the Cannibal, placing a gauntleted hand on its snout. It let loose a barely perceptible snort but otherwise offered nothing in the way of a protest.

"This is the Cannibal. Tis an ugly moniker, but sadly rather appropriate. He's a mean old bugger, and before I brought him to heel had a rather unfortunate habit of dining on younger dragons he could catch around Dragonstone."

Maegor had likewise reached the Grey Ghost, and gave it an endearing pat on a grey flank before speaking: "This is the Grey Ghost. He's a rather shy fellow, but I'm told no living dragon possesses his speed." Smiling absentmindedly, he continued. "I am told that a race between him and Princess Rhaenys' Meleys would have been a legendary affair."

Lord Piper and the assembled entourage behind him had adopted expressions of awe, and many approached as close as they dared. Gaemon hoped internally that the Cannibal would behave, as he desperately hoped to make a good impression. To his pleasure, the beast made no attempt to devour any of the garrison.

After a few moments of silent admiration, Lord Piper spoke up. "Thank you Sers. This has been a real treat. After your long flight, I am sure that you long to be rid of your armor, and to be able to change into something more comfortable. If you'll be so kind as to follow me."

With those words, he turned around and began to stroll back up the hillside. Gaemon followed, but not before turning to give the Cannibal one final look, as if to say: _stay_. It's only response was to exhale smoke and regard him with a glowing emerald eye. A few moments later, they had entered under the castle's portcullis into the courtyard, where smallfolk bustled about, fulfilling their morning duties. A smith was busy hammering out spearheads, and a boy chased a chicken about the yard. The garrison dispersed, taking positions about the courtyard and on the battlements, their eyes watching the gray morning skies. Lord Piper, flanked by both his Maester and Septon, pushed into the keep itself, and the remaining members of their party entered the keep's great hall. Pinkmaiden's main hall was a respectable size, probably capable of sitting around three hundred souls. Gaemon realized the Red Keep and Dragonstone had given him warped perceptions of what to expect from the average castle. _At least I've not seen an iron spike or draconic gargoyle yet_. Instead, Pinkmaiden's hall was filled with three rows of tables, with the Lord's table positioned at the back of the hall. Several hearths burned along its sides, and beautiful, if somewhat faded tapestries were hung from its walls, depicting maidens dancing through fields and forests.

Their path took them up one of Pinkmaiden's towers, into a spacious bedchamber. It too was lavishly decorated. Many pieces of furniture had been moved to the sides of the room to make space for two beds and trunks. Lord Piper turned to face them, his hands on his hips.

"I've made my own bedchamber available for your stay; I'll hear no protests. Once you've unpacked, rested, and changed, please join me below. It's not much, but I have arranged for a welcoming feast."

As he made to leave, Gaemon handed him the letter the Queen had sent along with him, saying: "My Lord, with the accommodations you have made, I hardly think this necessary, but the Queen asked I deliver this to you personally."

Lord Piper took it gracefully with a nod, before departing from the chambers. Two servants entered, helping both seeds out from their plate, and placing the pieces on stands in the chamber. Afterwards, they exited wordlessly, after offering polite bows.

Gaemon was going to ask Maegor how long they ought to stay, but when he turned, the other seed was already splayed out across his bed, clearly already asleep. Smirking, he reached into his satchel, retrieving the letter Baela had dropped. Once more, he silently thanked Maegor for all the instructions he'd given him to read. Those candlelit lessons at Malda's inn seemed to have been centuries past from where he sat now. Breaking the waxen seal, he opened the letter to reveal its message. As he did, a silver lock of hair fell from within to his lap.

_Gaemon,_

_I trust this letter finds you well. As you read this, you've likely already reached Pinkmaiden. My sister would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I had written to anyone, let alone a knight. For the sake of my pride, let us keep this between the two of us._

_Firstly, I want to wish you the best of luck. As you ride to war, know that you'll never be far from my thoughts. I desperately wish I could take my Moondancer along to help, but a certain Royal has forbade it. So bring Aemond to justice for the both of us._

_Secondly, as I wrote this, it occurred to me this will be your first time exploring the further reaches of Westeros. Does the world seem a bit larger now? Sometimes it is easy to forget just how little most of the people of the Seven Kingdoms are able to travel. We, as dragonriders, have been given one of the greatest gifts in the known world, wouldn't you agree?_

_Thirdly, I have a request. By now you'll have noticed that I've included a lock of my hair. Whilst I had intended to cut it for convenience's sake anyways, it serves an additional purpose. If you have not realized it already, both you and the other seeds will be amongst the most desired matches in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps it is petty of me, but I don't wish to receive any ravens announcing a match between a certain seed and any Pipers. So I've enclosed a bit of a reminder, and an incentive, to remind you of what you've left behind._

_Yours truly,_

_Baela_

_P.S. If you do indeed choose another girl, I must remind you Moondancer is always hungry. Likewise, if I ever stray, I must ask that you consider allowing the Cannibal to make a meal of any such suitors._

A wry smile had spread across Gaemon's features as he read. He pulled the leather pouch around his neck from beneath his shirt, and tucked the lock into it. Although he regretted doing so, he let the letter fall from his grasp into the brazier that burned in the center of the room. As the parchment curled and was consumed, the flames danced. At that moment he realised just how heavy his eyes had become. He sat back on the bed, before falling backwards onto the pillow. Sleep took him quickly.

* * *

He was awoken some time later by shouting. He shot up, scanning the chamber. Across from him Maegor was writhing on his bed, holding his hands above his head as if to shield his face. Springing up, Gaemon raced across the room, grabbing Maegor's arms, trying to shake him awake. As he did so, he noticed just how dark the circles under his friend's eyes had become, and how exhausted he looked, even asleep. Eventually, his friend awoke, looking in a semi-panic about the chamber. To Gaemon's relief, he did not lash out, and regained a semblance of awareness quickly. Taking a few steps back to give him space, his friend sat up, shaking his head.

"For how long have your dreams tormented you, Maegor?" Gaemon asked, concerned. He knew the other seed had always had vivid dreams, but this seemed to be a new variety.

Maegor shrugged. "For weeks now. Every time I close my eyes." He glanced at Gaemon with a guarded expression. He seemed to be contemplating saying something, but instead just sighed. "I suppose we've rested long enough. We shouldn't keep our host waiting for much longer."

Gaemon nodded, unsure whether to press him further. He decided against it. Turning, he opened the chest at the foot of his bed, and began rummaging for appropriate attire. Becoming amused, he turned with a grin to his friend.

"It appears that our host intends for us to go about attired as Pipers for the duration of our stay."

Maegor nodded amusedly, lifting a blue doublet accented with white silk from his chest.

Only a few moments later they had descended the steps, attired in the finest of their new clothing. The great hall was already bustling, with servants moving about setting tables as household knights came in from the yard. Lord Piper himself sat at the high table, and beckoned them forward.

"I am most pleased to see that your garments fit. I hope you will forgive me for clothing you in my House's colors, but I daresay they look quite dashing on you."

Seats remained open to his right and left, and Gaemon and Maegor were quick to fill them. As the hall filled with the castle's inhabitants, the Lord's table welcomed its newest occupants, with Lord Stanton's two sisters entering the hall. They were tall, and must have only been a year or so apart in age. Clad in dresses whose colors matched the scheme on their guest's doublets, they each claimed a seat next to each of the seeds. _I wonder if Baela has the ability to see the future_ , Gaemon thought to himself.

He stood as Lord Stanton introduced him to "his eldest sister, Melony." Bowing, he took her hand, placing a kiss upon it as he had seen others do at court. She blushed, curtseying in return before taking her seat. Sitting down next to her, he was about to offer a witty remark when Lord Stanton stood and raised his glass.

"A most hearty welcome to Pinkmaiden's most auspicious guests. Let us all make them feel most welcome in our home this evening, as they have come to rid us of the Terror of the Trident."

A great cheer rose in the hall, and cups and tankards were pounded on the tables as knights and men-at-arms hollered their support. The cheers grew even louder as the main course was brought in, with servants carrying roast hogs seasoned with herbs and with apples in their mouths. Three servants each brought a hog to a table, two holding it on the spit whilst the third cut portions of the meat off to serve to the guests. Freshly baked brown loaves of bread were also brought in, with bowels of butter alongside. Whilst it wasn't the grandest fare Gaemon had ever had, he appreciated it nonetheless, especially in this time of hardship. It didn't hurt that he was starving, either.

As he cut into his pork, a servant filled his mug with ale. He could not help but notice Melony Piper's eyes on him. She was a pretty girl, to be sure. Blonde of hair with a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, she had dark blue eyes of a color much like that of the Red Fork that flowed nearby. For the sake of politeness, he made sure to thoroughly chew his meal, washing it down with his ale, before turning to speak.

"I do wish to thank you and your family for being such excellent hosts, my Lady. I realize that a feast such as this is no easy affair with a war going on."

Melony smiled. "Think nothing of it. We are _ever_ so grateful to the Queen for sending you to us. You've no idea how tiresome it is to spend every day watching the skies for any sign of our doom approaching. I'd guess that this will be the first night of good sleep anyone in this castle has had in quite a while."

Gaemon nodded. "Well, we certainly are pleased to provide solace in such trying times." He pondered how to proceed. Luckily, Melony had come prepared.

"Is this your first time in the Riverlands, good Ser?"

"It is. In all honesty, it is my first time outside of King's Landing. Before that, I had spent all my days on Dragonstone."

Her eyes shone with interest. "What is Dragonstone itself like? I've only heard stories about the home of the Dragonlords."

"It's beautiful, in its own bleak way. Stoney green fields and hills rising up from the sea, with the Dragonmont itself sitting at the center of the island. Its fires are supposedly what makes the dragons grow."

"I hesitate to be so bold, but might I see your dragon at some point? I've never seen such a creature myself, and I'd never forgive myself for not asking."

Gaemon smiled. "He is a bit… cantankerous, but I am sure that can be arranged. Tomorrow, before we fly, you can see us off."

That brought another smile to Melony Piper's face. "Oh, that would be perfect! You wouldn't mind, would you Stanton?"

Gaemon turned, realising that his host had been following their conversation. With a grin, Lord Stanton gave his assent, to which Melony clapped her hands together in excitement. Many questions followed, concerning what his dragon liked to eat (oxen, mostly), how hot were its flames (very, hot enough to melt armor), what it was like to fly (amazing, one of the best sensations in the world).

"One of?" Asked Lady Melony, raising a playfully inquisitive eyebrow.

Gaemon chuckled. "Yes, _one_ of the best." He swirled his ale. "There are only a few others that could possibly match it."

"And those might be?" Melony asked, her lips curling ever so slightly into a grin.

Gaemon leaned back in his seat. "Well, for instance, feasting with such pleasant company as this."

His companion rolled her eyes. "I am quite certain that as compelling as we Pipers may be, our conversation cannot be said to be that irreplaceable."

Gaemon shook his head. "I am afraid that it is, my dear. I cannot imagine what else, other than flying, could surpass good conversation."

Melony Piper sighed, evidently entertained but annoyed with his coy response. She then extended her hand. "Perhaps dancing might jog your memory?"

He shrugged. "Mayhaps. But I should warn you, I am a terrible dancer."

It was now her turn to shrug. "I assure you, it matters not. I will lead."

With that, he acquiesced. Taking her hand, he allowed himself to be led to the center of the hall, as the tables were pushed to the sides. Glancing about him, he saw knights, pulling laughing serving girls to the floor, and Maegor himself was being led by Lord Stanton's younger, red-haired sister. In the torchlight, they began to dance, with Gaemon allowing himself to be coached through the basic steps. A band had taken up, playing a tune on their lutes, drums, and flutes. He wasn't familiar with it, but it had an infectiously festive sound. He was relieved that his partner had picked a relatively simple dance, and her sister appeared to have picked the same. The knights and other dancers followed suit, so each couple danced in a simple box step whilst rotating in a gradual circle about the hall.

As the music picked up, Melony smiled, and she bid him raise his hand, whereupon she whirled away from him, laughing as she spun, before twirling back towards him, allowing herself to be caught in his arms.

As she laughed, she spoke: "See? You aren't half bad at dancing!"

He smiled back, and as he raised her upright, he blinked. In the brief moment in which his eyes were closed, he saw a face staring back at him, but instead of blonde hair, and blue eyes, silver hair and purple eyes regarded him. He frowned. _Baela was right._ Wiping the frown from his features, he grinned back.

"I suppose you are right, my Lady. But any talent I have, I must thank my teacher for." With that, he kissed her hand. "But to my deepest regret, I fear I must retire. My day will begin at dawn tomorrow, and I'll need to be as well rested as possible in order to make sure my hosts are well protected."

Melony studied him, the slightest of frowns appearing momentarily. As quickly as it had appeared, however, it was gone. A warm smile replaced it.

"Well, given the circumstances, I understand, Ser. But you have not escaped further lessons in the art of dance."

"I would never presume to attempt to do so, my Lady. But now I must bid you goodnight." Bowing as best he could, he strode from the hall. After he had ascended the steps to the Lord's bedchamber, he found a pitcher of mulled wine that a servant must have left for the riders within. Pouring himself a glass, he drank deeply. He pondered the evening, feeling guilt, but both with regards to Baela, and Lady Melony. After refilling his cup, he drank, and as he considered what his next actions must be, he steadied himself against one of the pieces of furniture. It was only as his hand grew warmer that he noticed he had grabbed the side of the burning brazier. Shocked, he withdrew his hand. _That brazier must be hot enough to burn the skin off my body._

Glancing at his hand, he affirmed it was unscathed. As he tentatively extended his hand once more to test it, he was distracted by the flames themselves. As they danced, it seemed that shapes danced with them. Leaning closer, he thought he could see a forest through the flames. More startlingly, however, was that two pairs of eyes seemed to be regarding him through the fire. He blinked and leaned closer, but when his eyes opened, the watchers were gone, as was the fiery forest. For the next few minutes, he stared intently at the flames as they licked and danced about the brazier, but he saw no more signs of whatever he had seen lurking within them previously. _I feel as though I must be mistaken- but then again, the vision seemed so real_. It had almost been as though he could _feel_ the presence of others in the chamber.

He jumped as the door to the chamber creaked open behind him. Maegor entered, grinning. Gaemon quickly adjusted his expression, pushing his foreboding thoughts aside.

"It certainly seems as though Lord Piper's youngest sister has caught a certain seed's eye." He said with a smile.

Maegor reddened slightly. "Lady Catelyn is a charming woman, to be sure. I was surprised that you departed so early. It seemed as though Lady Melony was every bit as endearing."

Gaemon nodded. "She was. I was loath to leave, but… well I suppose I simply felt I was desperately in need of rest."

Maegor raised an eyebrow, but didn't challenge his explanation.

Gaemon sighed. He emptied the last of his cup, before returning it to its tray. Taking off his ceremonial attire, he retired to his bed. Unlike earlier, it took a good while for sleep to take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello again, everyone! With this chapter, the seeds have been dispatched on their fateful errands. Only time will tell what will come of them. The search for the Terror of the Trident begins, and in this timeline, the Pipers have been honored with the presence of dragonriders. I'm sure the Mootons are a bit saddened to not be the sole recipients of such an honor. I want to thank everyone for leaving the kudos and comments!


	20. Hobert III

**Hobert III**

Hobert stared into the inferno. The market town of Tumbleton stood no chance against the flames of three dragons, and Hobert watched as they wheeled around to make yet another pass. Prince Daeron flew his own Tessarion beyond the walls of the town, burning the remnants of the enemy forces that had been arrayed before Tumbleton's walls. From the hilltop that he sat atop his palfrey on, the soldiers scurrying around seemed little larger than ants. At Hobert's side on his own grey charger was his attendant knight, Ser Jared, as well as several mounted men-at-arms bearing Hightower badges that were assigned to Hobert as his personal guard.

From his vantage point on the hill, Hobert had been given an ideal place to watch the battle between his cousin's army and the ragtag forces of the usurper Rhaenyra, a mixed force of Reachmen, Rivermen, and from what Hobert had been told, even Northmen. _It matters not_ , cousin Ormund had stated to Hobert earlier that morning, _they will break against our superior skill and numbers_. Hobert had been more than inclined to agree.

He had seen how the hoary and half-wild Northmen had sallied forth from a postern gate to attack the vanguard of his cousin's army, blowing their warhorns and brandishing their weapons. _They must surely be mad_ , Hobert had thought, fully expecting their charge to be shattered by the mounted knights of the van. Though they suffered grievous losses, the Northmen pushed deeper and deeper, until they had even reached the banners that Lord Ormund himself surrounded himself with as the army's leader. Though the fighting was much too far from Hobert for his aging eyes to make out any specific individuals, he had seen how Lord Ormund's banners had fallen.

 _By the Seven_ , Hobert had thought, horrorstruck. Not long after, the remaining Northmen had been cut down, and his cousin's army had seemed to regain a modicum of cohesion. It was then that two dragons rose into the sky from within Tumbleton, as Prince Daeron flew towards the fighting on his own Tessarion. Hobert had feared for the Prince's chances against two dragons, both of which were larger than his own. It quickly became clear that no such fears were warranted, however, as both dragons began to loose their flames on the town below them.

 _What treachery is this?_ Hobert had thought. However, he was not one to gainsay such an action, for it was clear that their unexpected allies were doing much and more to hasten an end to the battle. As the town burned, its main gate was raised, and Lord Ormund's army began to pour into the blazing market town. And so Hobert currently sat atop his palfrey, watching the town of Tumbleton burn for its treason.

Hobert had seen the approaching riders for quite some time from his elevated vantage point, and as they drew ever nearer, Hobert realized that they were being led by his goodson, Ser Tyler. Reaching Hobert, Ser Tyler removed his greathelm, and Hobert saw a grim expression etched across his features. Hobert felt a cool tingle of apprehension run down his spine, before breaking the short silence.

"What brings you all the way back here to me, Ser Tyler? The last I had seen you, you were riding in the vanguard with cousin Ormund." At the mention of Lord Ormund, Ser Tyler's frown deepened.

"I bring grave news, goodfather," Ser Tyler began, "Lord Ormund was killed when the Northmen sallied forth from a postern gate in the town. I've come to retrieve you, for the army is in desperate need of orders."

Hobert looked at his goodson in horror. _Cousin Ormund was killed?_ He felt panic rising in his chest. It was then that he considered what else his goodson had said. "The army is in need of orders?" Hobert asked, distraught and confused. "Why not ask Ser Bryndon? He is more of a soldier than I am, and he was riding with you and Lord Ormund in the van."

Ser Tyler grimaced at his words, and Hobert felt as though his heart had dropped out from his chest. "Goodfather… Ser Bryndon was slain as well. You are the foremost remaining Hightower in this army. You are needed at the front to give orders."

Hobert felt as though he might faint. _This can't be. Both cousin Ormund and cousin Bryndon?_ Hobert briefly considered whether he was trapped in the midst of a particularly awful nightmare, but the distant sounds of crackling flame and the scent of blood wafting from Ser Tyler's bloodstained doublet and sword were too strong to be imagined. The intense horror and fear that Hobert felt gave way to a sudden numbness of both his mind and body, and Hobert nodded stiffly at his goodson. "Alright then," Hobert said, his voice brittle and strained, "let us be off."

* * *

Though they were shrouded by dirty and bloody Hightower cloaks, Hobert could make out the unmistakable shape of bodies beneath both, lying on the trampled and broken ground not far beyond the main gate of Tumbleton. Chaos and confusion surrounded Hobert as he dismounted and approached the cloaked corpses. Hobert was surprised that the roar of flame, clash of steel, and screams of the dying seemed to be little more than a whisper in his ears as he walked forward in an almost trance-like state.

Hobert removed his greathelm and handed it off to a nearby man-at-arms. Kneeling towards the first cloaked form, Hobert silently lamented how his body ached and creaked under the weight of his plate armor. With a mailed hand, Hobert grabbed the edge of the cloak, drawing it back to see the face beneath. Ser Bryndon's eyes were unfocused and misted over in death, and his face was covered in a splotchy dark red-brown veil of dried blood. A savage wound had been dealt to the left side of his neck, a cut so deep that more of cousin Bryndon's head seemed separated from his body than connected to it. With a grimace, Hobert drew the cloak back over his face.

Turning to the other cloaked corpse, Hobert drew back the cloak that covered it. Hobert immediately turned away, retching up the remnants of his morning meal into the beaten dust of the battlefield. Lord Ormund's face, or rather what remained of it, was a gaping ruin. Whatever blow had killed his cousin had cleft his head nearly completely in twain, leaving naught but shattered bone and bloody pulp in its wake. Hobert was only able to recognize the corpse as Lord Ormund's because of a long scar that ran from his chin down the side of his neck, the result of a tourney accident in the days of his youth. Dabbing at the foul-smelling bile remaining on his lips and chin with a handkerchief, Hobert pulled the cloak back over cousin Ormund's corpse.

With a wince, Hobert struggled back to his feet, and turned to face his goodson, Ser Tyler, as well as several other Lords and landed knights of the Reach. Nodding at a corpse splayed out in the dust several feet away, Lord Unwin Peake spoke. "That crazed Northman was responsible for the deaths of both Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. Ser Bryndon took the man's shield arm off with his longaxe, but the man still killed them both with his battleaxe before taking several spears to the chest."

Hobert looked at the bloody and grizzled face of the dead Northman, staring blankly at the sky beneath a cracked helm. _He looks as old as I am_. Hobert could hardly believe it. _How did an ancient man covered in naught but old mail and fur pelts manage to slay two of the most puissant knights of the Reach?_ Turning back to regard the assembled Lords and knights behind him, Hobert saw that Ser Tyler had stepped forward.

Holding out a sheathed sword to Hobert, Ser Tyler nodded solemnly in the direction of the cloaked corpses of Hobert's cousins. "As the foremost remaining Hightower in this army, goodfather, we thought it appropriate that you wield _Vigilance_." Taking his family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword from the hands of his goodson, Hobert was surprised at how light it was. _Even the best castle-forged steel of Oldtown couldn't hold a candle to this_ , Hobert thought. Drawing the blade slightly from its sheath, Hobert stared for a moment at the rippled metal, before sheathing it once more. Handing off his old steel sword to a squire, Hobert buckled _Vigilance_ to his sword belt.

A loud roar drew the attention of Hobert and the men gathered before him, and Hobert watched as Tessarion landed nearby. Prince Daeron unchained himself from his dragon's saddle, before sliding from its back and hopping to the ground. He strode over to the cloaked corpses first, examining the bodies of both Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. Afterwards, he made his way towards Hobert, nodding briefly at the assembled Lords and landed knights as they inclined their heads and bowed.

Stopping in front of Hobert, Prince Daeron removed his black steel helm, tucking it under his arm. His expression was grim, and his purple eyes had a deep sorrow in them. _The Prince was Lord Ormund's former squire after all_. "Ser Hobert," the Prince began, "I'm sure you are as aggrieved as I am at the deaths of Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. However, this army is in need of leadership now more than ever. Tumbleton is a burning ruin, and the men of the army run wild in its streets, pillaging, raping, and killing. As a Prince and the King's own brother, I order you to bring this army under control and stop their predations on this town at once."

As Hobert attempted to collect his thoughts, Lord George Graceford spoke up, disbelief evident in his tone. "But my Prince, the town of Tumbleton is home to naught but traitors! Surely they deserve the same fate as Bitterbridge?"

The reedy man took a step back in alarm as Prince Daeron turned to him in a sudden fury. "The people of Bitterbridge were responsible for the murder of my nephew, a Prince and a boy of scarcely three years! The people of Tumbleton have committed no such crime. They have undoubtedly been led astray by Lord Footly, the ruler of this town, but such treason is his to answer for, not his subjects!" Whirling back to face Hobert, Prince Daeron spoke to him once again, his tone grave and seething with a barely-controlled rage. "Ser Hobert, see that my orders are carried out. I'll have no more of this sack." With that, the Prince donned his helm and made his way back to Tessarion, chaining himself into its saddle and taking flight.

Hobert watched the Prince take flight, and when he looked back at the men assembled before him, he saw that all eyes were fixed on him. It took all of Hobert's bearing not to shudder as apprehension closed around his heart in a vise-like grip. Lords and knights waited expectantly for orders to carry out, but when Hobert opened his mouth to speak, his throat was dry and constricted, and no words came forth from his lips.

His goodson Ser Tyler attempted to come to his rescue. "What are your orders, goodfather? Surely we should act with haste to appease the Prince." Several of the Lords and knights surrounding Hobert's goodson murmured their agreement.

With a sharp glare at Ser Tyler, Lord Unwin Peake stepped forward. "This was a task entrusted to Ser Hobert, not you, Ser Tyler. Let the man speak for himself." He turned to regard Hobert. "What will it be, Ser Hobert? We all await your command."

Hobert felt sweat pouring down his face, and mopped at his face desperately with his kerchief. The walls of Tumbleton ahead of him were alight, and Hobert watched as a burning corpse plummeted from the battlements, splattering like rotten fruit when it hit the ground.

"I…" Hobert began, and he licked his dry lips nervously, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He could see the flames roaring and blazing beyond the gate of the town, with shadowy forms darting in and out of the billowing smoke. _Like the entrance to the Seventh Hell_ , Hobert thought with dismay.

"I need but a moment to collect my thoughts," Hobert rasped. He could hear distant shrieks and wails emanating from the burning town. _How many are screaming for me to hear them from beyond the city walls?_ Hobert's mind was spinning, and he felt faint and short of breath.

Turning to a nearby man-at-arms, Hobert spoke. "Some wine, I beg of you. I need to clear my thoughts." The man nodded and strode off, looking for a skin of wine. _Do something, damn you_ , Hobert thought bitterly. _Are you such an old fool that you can't even carry out a Prince's direct orders?_ The Lords and knights stood watching and waiting for Hobert to command them to do something, anything.

"A moment please my Lords," Hobert said, hating how hollow and brittle his voice sounded. Heedless of his indecision, Tumbleton continued to burn.

* * *

Hobert thought that nothing in the world was as near to the Seven Hells as the ruins of Tumbleton. Many structures were naught more than smoldering ruins, and those that had survived the flames were scorched and vandalized ruins, as men of the army searched every nook and cranny of the ruined town for plunder. Like Bitterbridge, the plumes of smoke had climbed into the sky in such voluminous amounts that the sun itself had been blocked out, leaving the world shrouded in a dark grey hue lightened only by crackling flame. His palfrey liked being in Tumbleton little and less than Hobert himself did. The streets were black with ash, and choked with corpses. A large number were scorched and burned, though it seemed to Hobert that even more had been slain at the hands of men, not dragons. The bodies were piled so high in some streets and wynds that they had been rendered nearly impassable.

 _I did all that I could_ , Hobert thought. After the man-at-arms had brought him a skin of wine, Hobert had managed to collect his wits enough to send riders into the ruins of the city. He had commanded the men of the army to stop their sacking of the town, by orders of himself and the Prince Daeron. Only a few riders had returned, informing Hobert that hardly any had listened to the decree. _"The others likely joined in,"_ Jon Roxton had laughed. Hobert had been unhappy with the results, but could think of no other ways in which to enforce order. _What more could I have done?_

Hobert had sent Jon Roxton through the town with a stout force of mounted knights to secure Tumbleton's castle several hours before, as the town still burned. Roxton had sent back a rider not long after to report that the castle, as well as its Lord and Lady, had been secured. As evening arrived and the sky began to darken from dim grey to black, Hobert and the foremost Lords and landed knights of the army began to make their way through the winding streets of the town up towards the castle.

As the group of mounted Lords and knights rounded a corner, a cluster of men-at-arms in the street were forced to scatter out of the way, temporarily abandoning the corpses that they had been looting. As Hobert rode past, he saw one of the men tugging furiously at the hand of a particularly corpulent corpse that had the look of a successful merchant. The hand was covered in expensive rings, but the dead merchant's hand was so fat that the rings were not budging. The man-at-arms cursed in his wroth, and brought down his sword on the corpse's wrist in a savage strike, severing the hand. Clutching the ring-covered hand in one fist, the man stalked off to find more loot, his sword clenched tightly in his other hand.

The evening air was filled with a miasma of screaming, laughing, moaning, and a thousand other unsettling or downright sickening noises that made Hobert clutch tighter at his reins and wish that he was anywhere but Tumbleton. Worse than the noise, however, were the smells in the air. Charred meat most of all, but also ash, blood, and shit. It was enough to make Hobert want to vomit again. Instead he continued towards the small and stout castle that sat on a hill in the center of the town, overlooking its charred ruins.

Hobert's party found that the main road they had been taking was blocked by the scorched remains of a particularly large building that had collapsed into the street. They were therefore all forced to squeeze their group through a narrow winding wynd that continued up the hill. The walls of the surrounding buildings loomed large above their heads, stained with soot and scarred by flame.

As he rode along it, Hobert overheard a conversation that drifted from an upstairs window of a building that overlooked the wynd.

"Yer a right bastard, ya know that? I wanted a turn too, but then ya had to go and kill her instead!" one voice complained.

"Shut up!" snapped another voice, "tis a big town, there's more than enough coin and women for the both of us."

Hobert grimaced. _I did all that I could_. What more could the Prince have asked of him? None but the Seven truly could see the darkness that lingered in the hearts of men. _The men of this army are under the Stranger's influence, and there is naught that any mortal man can do to dissuade them_. Hobert could only hope that they came to their senses soon. _We fight to defend the rightful King's throne, not bring death and woe to his subjects_.

It was almost a relief when the walls of Tumbleton's castle and the seat of House Footly began to loom large in front of Hobert and his party. _We've finally arrived_. Hobert's sense of relief cooled as he noticed countless heads mounted on spikes along the walls. Riding under the portcullis into the castle's relatively small yard, Hobert found that it was nearly full to bursting with two large dragons, one of bronze coloration and the other possessing scales of a silvery color. Both were gorging themselves on a pile of headless corpses that had been dragged off to the far corner of the yard.

In the center of the yard stood Bold Jon Roxton, along with several of his household knights (including Ser Balman, still bearing the valyrian steel greatsword _Heartsbane_ ). Standing nearby were a young man and woman in fine black attire, both of which were covered in patterns of silver caltrops. To the other side of Roxton and closer to the feasting dragons stood two men in black plate armor. They had both removed their helms, which were also crafted of black steel and were winged. One had brittle white hair and bloodshot eyes, and was significantly smaller than his companion, who was barrel-chested and had closely cropped pale blonde hair.

Roxton stepped forward with a grin on his face. "The castle and town are completely under our control." He then nodded in the direction of the man and woman. "We took Lord and Lady Footly prisoner, and executed the rest of their castle garrison." Beckoning one of his knights forward with a gauntleted hand, the man stepped forward and held up two severed heads for all to see. "The head on the left is that of Ser Merrell 'the Bold', a traitorous landed knight from the Blackwater Rush, and the head on the right is that of Red Robb Rivers, the Bastard of Raventree Hall. Ser Merrell was killed as the castle fell, and Red Robb and his surviving archers were killed after they made their way back to the castle when the city began to burn."

As Bold Jon finished speaking, a man in plate stepped forward, bearing no sigil on his doublet that Hobert could recognize.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance my Lords," the man began, "I am Lord Owain Bourney. It was my men and I that slew the traitor Ser Merrell and opened the gates of the castle to you. My ruse of claiming to support the usurper Rhaenyra worked perfectly, and allowed me to help you in winning a great victory for the true king, Aegon, the second of his name." He glared as Lady Footly spit at his feet.

Jon Roxton laughed at her display of defiance, and made his way over to the captured Lord and Lady. With a gauntleted fist, Roxton tilted her chin up in order to force her to look into his eyes.

"You are truly a prize, my Lady. As brave and fierce as you are beautiful." Bold Jon's eyes glittered dangerously, and his smile was as sharp as steel. "A woman like you is wasted on a callow boy like him," Roxton nodded in the direction of Lord Footly. The young Lord scowled deeply as Bold Jon continued to speak. "You are a prize indeed." Roxton's grin deepened. "I think I shall claim you as a prize of war. I should think none would please me as greatly as you."

As Lady Footly glared at Ser Jon, Lord Footly spoke up, face red with anger. "I shall remind you Ser that we are your prisoners, and of noble birth besides. You have no right to treat us so." He tilted his chin up in defiance as Roxton spun to face him.

Bold Jon continued to smile as he spoke, but his eyes had grown dark and cold. "I should think that I am able to do what I please with traitors to the Realm." When Lord Footly opened his mouth to speak, Roxton drew his black Valyrian steel blade _Orphan-Maker_. "Isn't she beautiful?" Roxton asked softly, looking lovingly at the rippled black steel. Regarding Lord Footly, the smile on Roxton's face had melted away. "I should carefully consider your next words my Lord, for my _Orphan-Maker_ is always thirsty for blood."

Lord Footly stood his ground, and glared at Roxton. "We are your prisoners, and have yielded to you. You are naught but a false knight if you think that you can treat us so."

In a flash, Bold Jon had struck Lord Footly in a savage slash with his _Orphan-Maker_ , cutting the man nearly in twain. Lady Footly screamed in horror as Roxton tore his blade free from the corpse of her husband. Holding his blade up to regard the blood running along its length, Roxton scowled darkly. "She can make widows too," Roxton seethed, before wiping his blade clean on Lord Footly's doublet and sheathing it.

Stalking over to Lady Footly, Roxton grabbed at her gown and began to tear away at it savagely as the woman began to weep. Hobert was appalled. _This is wrong. Roxton can't possibly do this, it goes against every knightly code in existence_. Looking around, Hobert was dismayed to see that the other Lords and landed knights didn't seem to share Hobert's sentiments. Many were grinning and laughing, and some went as far as to shout out ribald jests. Others simply looked on impassively, or with disinterest.

Hobert felt a glimmer of hope as Lord Owen Fossoway stepped forward with a scowl and began to speak.

"Seven Hells Jon," the Lord of Cider Hall began, "at least take her off to some chamber in the castle first. I feel that I speak for most of us when I say that I have no desire to see you _claim your prize_." Roxton paused and grinned darkly, while others around Hobert chuckled at Fossoway's words.

 _No, no, this is all wrong_ , Hobert thought with despair. _This isn't right, someone needs to stop him_. Hobert licked his lips nervously. _I'm the leader of this army now. I can make Roxton stop this folly right now_. Hobert opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. Roxton had begun to drag Lady Footly in the direction of the castle keep's main doors. _Damn it, coward, speak up!_ In spite of himself, no sounds came forth from Hobert as he watched Roxton disappear beyond the keep's doors with Lady Footly in tow. Hobert was overcome with a profound sense of self-loathing. _You feeble coward, damn you to the Seventh Hell_.

Hobert barely noticed as Lord Peake approached the two men in black plate armor with winged helms, and began to speak to them.

"It gladdens all of our hearts that you have decided to add your support to the cause of the true king, Sers. We will send for you both as soon as we convene for a war council, in order to discuss the army's next moves, as well as suitable rewards for the both of you." Both of the usurper Rhaenyra's former dragon riders nodded curtly at Lord Peake's words. As the last of the meager evening light faded from the ashen sky, Hobert hollowly considered how he had never felt further from home.

* * *

The pavilion was crowded, and Hobert felt odd sitting in the chair that Lord Ormund used to occupy. It sat at the head of a long table running along the pavilion's length. Seated along the table were the most important of the Lords and landed knights in the army, and those of lesser note stood around the table. It had been two days since the battle beneath Tumbleton's walls, yet the town still smoldered. The soldiers of the army continued to run rampant in its streets, looting, raping, and pillaging.

 _The Prince is more than displeased at the actions of the army_. Prince Daeron sat to Hobert's left, wearing his black steel plate armor. The golden dragon embossed across his breastplate glittered in the light of the braziers throughout the pavilion. After Hobert's earlier efforts to rein in the army had failed, the Prince had wished to begin executing the men who disobeyed his commands and continued to sack Tumbleton. _"If honor and duty won't compel them to stop, then mayhaps the threat of a noose will,"_ the Prince had said, but he had been dissuaded by Lord Peake.

 _"If you hang every man that has taken part in the looting and raping within Tumbleton, my Prince, then you will no longer have an army,"_ the grizzled marcher Lord had said. _"They'll fall in line easily enough when the army marches again, and Tumbleton will then be free of their predations."_ Though the Prince had seemed none too pleased with Lord Peake's solution, he had not made any further attempts to force an end to the sack.

As Hobert sipped some of the Arbor Gold within a goblet a servant had filled for him, a man-at-arms stepped into the tent. "The dragon riders have arrived, my Lords," the man stated, and at a nod from Hobert, the man stepped back outside to retrieve them.

Stepping inside, the two men wore their black steel plate as they had before, and strode towards the end of the table. Lords and landed knights moved clear of them, muttering, and neither dragonrider seemed to notice nor care of their discontent. In his short time knowing them, Hobert was not impressed by what he learned of each man. The smaller man, Ser Ulf, seemed a complete drunkard, and the larger man, Ser Hugh, had proven a brute. On his first day in the camp, Ser Hugh had goaded Ser Balman, the wielder of _Heartsbane_ , into a duel of honor after repeatedly insulting him. Ser Hugh then killed the knight with his warhammer and claimed the Valyrian steel greatsword for himself. The weapon was currently sheathed in a scabbard borne across the hulking man's back.

As both of the usurper Rhaenyra's former dragonriders reached the far end of the table, Prince Daeron addressed them both, announcing the verdict that had been agreed upon by the assembled Lords of the army. "Ser Ulf White and Ser Hugh Hammer, you have both proven yourselves as a great boon to my brother's cause, and it is the opinion of myself and the Lords assembled before you to reward you for the aid you have given and will continue to contribute to our cause." As the Prince paused before continuing, Hobert noticed the unrestrained looks of avarice that had swept across both of the dragonriders' faces.

"Ser Ulf," Prince Daeron began, "I will recommend to my brother the King that you be named the new Lord of Bitterbridge and its surrounding town and lands." Turning towards the other rider, Prince Daeron continued. "Ser Hugh, I will in turn recommend to the King that you be named the new Lord of Tumbleton and its surrounding town and lands." As the Prince sat back, both dragonriders' expressions turned stony.

The larger dragonrider spoke first, his deep voice rumbling angrily. "Tumbleton and Bitterbridge are bloody ruins!" he snarled. "You lot are tryin' to make us Lords o' naught but ashes an' bones!"

The smaller dragonrider was the next to speak, his bloodshot eyes blazing with sudden rage. "Does the King mean to give us coin to rebuild our _illustrious_ seats, or will he bugger us and turn the both of us into paupers?"

By this point, the murmurs and muttering of the Lords and landed knights had grown into outright calls and shouts of outrage, and Hobert could see that the state of affairs was rapidly deteriorating. Thankfully, Lord Unwin Peake rose from his seat, and the men throughout the pavilion quieted as he began to speak. "Tumbleton and Bitterbridge are more than fair compensation for men of your _status_ ", he began tersely, "and the both of you must needs be satisfied with them, lest we be forced to reconsider our judgement. You have made a bitter enemy of the usurper Rhaenyra through your betrayal, and have naught but the goodwill of King Aegon and his Lords to rely upon now. I suggest that you accept the awards that you have been given, and don't give us all further cause to doubt your loyalty to our cause."

As Lord Peake sat back down in his chair, it seemed to Hobert that the smaller dragonrider was nearly shaking with rage, and the larger seed was glaring balefully at all around him. "No, m'lord," the massive dragonrider began, " _you_ forget that the both of us ride dragons. The bitch Rhaenyra still 'as plenty more than your King Eggon, and he still 'as yet to come out of 'iding. If you want us to help you take back King's Landing, then you all must needs think o' something better to reward us with than two piles o' ashes." With that, the two dragonriders stalked out of the pavilion angrily, heedless of the enraged Lords and knights around them.

Jon Roxton's face was red with anger as he addressed the Lords and knights surrounding him. "I say that we kill the both of them right now, and let the bravest of us tame their mounts and ride them into battle!" His words were met with enthusiasm by many of the Lords and landed knights.

Lord Peake stood back up as he addressed Bold Jon's words. "Now is not the time for rash decisions, Jon. Have you already forgotten what has become of the forces led by Lord Jason Lannister and Ser Criston Cole? They are all gone, dead or so hopelessly scattered as to make no matter. The actions of this army now may very well determine the war's outcome, so we cannot afford to make foolish mistakes."

At Lord Unwin's words, Roxton's expression had soured before he responded. "And by what right do you presume to give me commands, Lord Peake? You are not the leader of this army."

Lord Unwin glared imperiously back at Roxton. "Lord Ormund Hightower is dead. This army has been without official leadership for two days. I _should_ be the leader. I have known a lifetime of battle, growing up on and ruling lands in the Dornish marches. I command one hundred knights and nine hundred stout men-at-arms, more men than most Lords in this army can claim to have contributed."

Crossing his arms, Bold Jon retorted. "That is all well and good, Lord Peake, but what this army needs to lead it is a warrior. The time for sieges and diplomacy has long since passed. We need a man who is willing to whet his sword with the blood of the King's enemies and lead his leal men to victory! I daresay that no man in this army can claim to be half the fighter that I am!" Roxton looked around at the men surrounding him with a dangerous glint in his eye, as though he was almost challenging one of them to gainsay him. None did.

Hobert was very worried. _This army was Lord Ormund's army, a Hightower army. It assembled and marched from Oldtown, and much and more of the mercenaries marching along with it are under the direct employ of my family. I must needs speak now in support of my own candidacy as leader or not at all_. Hobert cleared his throat, and nearly quailed in apprehension as all eyes turned to him. Standing, Hobert began to speak, feeling beads of perspiration gather on his forehead and face.

"My cousin, Lord Ormund, was the undisputed leader of this army until his untimely death. You all gathered beneath the walls of his city, Oldtown, in order to help my Lord cousin fight for the true King's rights. I am the foremost remaining Hightower in this army, as well as kin to the Queen Dowager Alicent and all of her children. It is I who should take command and lead this army to victory, to avenge my fallen cousins and see my kin keep their rightful throne." Though Hobert felt short of breath and nearly sick with anxiety, he forced himself to stand tall, and meet the gazes of the assembled Lords and knights with a steady gaze of his own.

Hobert was finally allowed a moment to breathe as a man forced his way to the front of the crowd of standing Lords and landed knights who lacked enough power and influence to be given a seat around the pavilion's table. Hobert recognized him as Owain Bourney, the Lord from the Blackwater Rush who had opened the gates of Tumbleton's castle to Lord Ormund's army. "I should be given the command of this army," Bourney began, eyeing the men around him coolly and confidently. "What this army needs most is a leader with cunning, and an ability to win great victories with minimal losses. As the usurper Rhaenyra's forces bear down on us all from the north, it is of paramount importance that we take the city of King's Landing before they arrive. I can win us the city, and keep more than enough of the army alive to hold it."

Approaching Lord Owain from his spot at the table, Lord Unwin Peake called out to him. "You claim to be a man of great cunning, yet all I see is a man from some unheard-of keep along the Blackwater Rush whose greatest victory was the result of betrayal!"

Lord Owain scowled. "My Lord Peake, the only reason Tumbleton is firmly in the hands of the rightful King is because of myself. Tis true that I didn't bring nearly as many men as you to fight for the King, but with the men I did have, I delivered this army an entire town and castle! You seek to name me traitor, but such claims are false. I have always been loyal to the true King. And in the eyes of the usurper Rhaenyra, are we not all traitors?"

Stopping a few steps in front of Lord Bourney, Lord Peake retorted with a scowl. "You speak well enough my Lord, but I name you for what you truly are: a craven. How do you propose that we take the city of King's Landing? Twould be difficult for you, I should imagine. After all, you are not inside the walls of the city and able to throw open the gates after putting a spear through the back of the man next to you!"

Enraged, Lord Owain closed the short gap of distance betwixt himself and Lord Peake. "I would tell you my plans to take the city, but I wouldn't expect a man as thoroughly wooden-headed and conceited as yourself to understand them! I name you for what you are, Lord Peake, an old man as uninspiring as he is unfit to lead this army!"

Quick as a bolt of lightning, Lord Peake drew a dagger from his belt and shoved it through Lord Bourney's left eye, clutching at the collar of the man's mail shirt with his other hand. Lord Owain's right eye went wide with shock, before misting over and becoming unfocused as the life left his body. With a wet squelching noise, Lord Unwin yanked his dagger free from Lord Bourney's eye and shoved his corpse backwards, letting it thump dully on the ground. He then bent forward for a moment, wiping his dagger off on Lord Bourney's tunic before straightening back up and sheathing his dagger.

"Once a turncloak, ever a turncloak," Lord Unwin said coolly, looking down upon Lord Bourney's corpse with disdain.

Hobert was speechless, and knew that his face must have been frozen in an almost comical expression of shock and horror. Prince Daeron was similarly horror-struck, staring in disbelief at Lord Peake, and the corpse sprawled out on the ground beyond him. All of the Lords and landed knights throughout the pavilion bore comparable expressions of disbelief and horror, save one.

Bold Jon Roxton laughed loudly and heartily. "By the Seven, Lord Unwin," the knight began, nodding at the dagger sheathed on Lord Peake's belt as he caught his breath. "You've made your _point_." Roxton threw back his head and laughed uproariously at his own jest.

 _Madness, all of it,_ Hobert thought, feeling an overwhelming sense of stupefaction wash over him. _O Crone, please lend us all your guidance. We have desperate need of it_. As was the case of all the prayers he had made on campaign, Hobert's impassioned plea went unanswered.


	21. Baela III

**Baela III**

The walls of Maegor's Holdfast became more restrictive each day she spent inside them. Baela was quite certain she'd explored every inch of them in the past several weeks, and her recent confinement inside them threatened to drive her mad. She took solace in the fact that she was not alone in her struggles, as Joff was quite possibly the only person in the Red Keep more infuriated about his mother's 'precautionary measures' than Baela herself. _Ever since word of the betrayal arrived, cos and her court have grown ever more wary of outsiders_. When ravens had arrived detailing just how viciously Tumbleton had been put to the sack, the court had grown quiet with consternation. It had been bad enough knowing that Prince Daeron and a Hightower army of 20,000 men were approaching. The addition of two additional riders and the destruction of the only credible Black forces in the area had rendered the Queen's strategic situation precarious. _Some, behind closed doors, would argue it has been rendered untenable._

Baela herself had been shocked by the news, but unlike her cousin, had been immediately in favor of gathering the rest of the riders that remained in the city and orchestrating a surprise attack on the Green army encamped just 50 leagues to the southwest. _Between my Moondancer, Joff's Tyraxes, cos' Syrax, and Addam Velaryon's Seasmoke we could put their whole army to flight… it would be a second Field of Fire_. As enticing as the prospect had been to her, the Queen had only paled when it had been raised in her presence, before insisting that they instead "gather what forces they had remaining to them and prepare for their foe's approach."

Soon after, Rhaenyra had ordered the gates to King's Landing shut, and ordered that the members of the Royal Family were to remain inside Maegor's Holdfast at all times. Baela wished that her cousin would exhibit some of her fiery wroth that she used to demonstrate with great frequency before the war, but it seemed the loss of two sons had put those flames out permanently. Instead of a righteous fury, the Queen often exhibited a paranoid cynicism. In the wake of the two betrayers, it seemed as though she expected most were waiting for the perfect opportunity to plant a knife in her back. _I cannot blame her though_ , Baela thought to herself. _I can only imagine the weight she bears upon her shoulders._

The Queen's paranoia was unsettling for other reasons as well. Baela often found herself terrified that the truth of her and Gaemon's nighttime excursion had been leaked. She had so far been able to calm herself by insisting that if her cousin had any such knowledge of their trip, she certainly would not have kept quiet about it. _Gaemon could lose his head for our foolishness._ Unbidden, a shiver ran down her spine. At a time like this, it was important that she gave no indication of any attachment. _Nonetheless, I don't regret a moment of it_ , she thought triumphantly to herself. It was good to have someone to care for in that way again. She often found herself wondering what he might be doing, and whether he was enjoying his stay at Pinkmaiden. She wished she could be there in person to help with the search, but given the current atmosphere in the court, she privately accepted it was for the best she had stayed. _Had we spent any more time together, the stakes of our bond would have only risen_. _The last thing cos needs is another scandal_.

A knock at her door forced her mind to the present. Rising from her chair, she straightened her shirt (she had returned to wearing her traditional garb the moment she had been confined as a sign of protest) and pulled the oaken door open, its hinges rasping ever so slightly. Outside stood Ser Rayford Lothston, who nodded respectfully as a sign of greeting.

Clearing his throat, he began to speak: "My Lady, the Queen requests your presence in the Queen's Ballroom. She is assembling her advisors and lords to give her council. She has requested your attendance, as a member of the Royal Family and as a dragonrider."

Baela smiled. _Finally, something to do_. "Thank you for informing me, Ser Lothston. I will follow your lead."

Their trip through the Holdfast was quiet, as Ser Rayford showed little desire to exchange pleasantries. Torches burned in their sconces, casting their dancing light about the halls. The near total absence of windows within the Holdfast necessitated the burning of torches constantly, leaving its inhabitants with the eerie sensation of no idea of the time, as though they lived in a perpetual night. Making their way to the Queen's Ballroom, guards at the doors nodded in respect before opening them to reveal a great host of bickering lords and attendants. It seemed those deemed the most loyal to the Queen had evidently been asked to attend, both to give council and support. The silvered mirrors upon the walls gave the impression that the hall was even larger, and filled with even greater numbers, as their apprehensive or outraged reflections mimicked their counterparts in the real world.

As she entered, the herald in attendance slammed his staff twice upon the floor, before announcing her as "the Lady Baela Targaryen."

The assembled parted before her to make way as she crossed the breadth of the hall to join her cousin, who sat at the Queen's high table and was currently working on finishing off the remnants of a lamprey pie. _None are brave enough to tell her, but the burdens of rulership have greatly enhanced Rhaenyra's appetite,_ Baela thought as she approached. The Queen had grown a bit stouter since the days of her youth, and when she frowned (which was often), she often had two chins. Next to the Queen sat Joff, who upon noticing Baela, gave her a friendly grin. As she finished off the last piece, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms gave her cousin a grave nod, before clapping in order to signal the assembled lords to take their seats. Those assembled represented the most powerful lords present in King's Landing, including the Manderly brothers, Torrhen and Medrick, her grandfather Corlys Velaryon, the heir to Runestone, Ser Willem Royce, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Lorent Marbrand, the master of coin Lord Bartimos Celtigar, and the massive Ser Luthor Largent, commander of the Gold Cloaks. Those assembled quickly took their seats in a ring around the hall, its tables having been pushed to the sides.

After taking a sip of wine to clear her throat, the Queen stood to address the assembled Lords. "I thank each of you for attending me on this grim day. As many of you may already have known, a raven has arrived bearing news of a grim betrayal at Tumbleton. The Hightower army, escorted by my treasonous half-brother Prince Daeron, have not only taken the city and put it to the sack, but have also managed to convince two of my own dragonseeds to turn cloak. I know not what promises they made, but the fact remains that these traitors must be punished."

As Baela sat, she scanned the room and those assembled. Many of the faces were grim, evidently disturbed to hear the rumors of treason confirmed. _A lord, or even an army defecting is one matter_. _Two dragonriders defecting is quite another_. Despite her desire to go to battle, Baela harbored no illusions that such a fight would prove costly. Her own Moondancer was simply not yet large enough to fight evenly with the older, larger dragons, and even Prince Daeron's Tessarion was likely to be quite a bit larger by this point. If Prince Aemond were to somehow receive word of the events at Tumbleton and bring Vhagar to join their enemies, the situation in the capital would be untenable. An assembly of that many dragons would require nearly all of the Queen's own forces to destroy.

A gruff, rumbling voice brought her out of her thoughts: "Your Grace, the news from Tumbleton is indeed grim tidings. What news do we have from the Riverlands?" Medrick Manderly asked, his voice low and gruff.

Rhaenyra nodded to Maester Gerardys, who occupied his usual position standing behind her on the right. He raised two letters before those assembled, his chains jingling.

"Prince Daemon writes from Maidenpool, reporting little in the way of success. He and the girl Nettles have flown their dragons daily, and report signs of Aemond's devastation stretching from the Mountains of the Moon to the Green Fork. Despite her huge size, it seems Vhagar can be incredibly elusive when she wishes to be."

Gerardys then raised the other letter. "We received this message from Pinkmaiden yesterday, sent by Ser Gaemon. He relays that both he and Ser Maegor have scoured the Riverlands every day, but they too have only found ashes. Aemond's wroth has reached as far as Sallydance on the Red Fork, but he seems to strike at random, leaving only a few terrified survivors who cannot agree on which way he flew afterwards."

 _How is it possible that the largest dragon in Westeros is suddenly impossible to find? We have devoted four skilled riders to the search, and yet they turn up nothing_.

Torrhen Manderly stood, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a kerchief. "I had hoped for better news, your Grace. I fear that if the hunt for Aemond continues for much longer, Lord Cregan Stark may have to halt his march. We ought to assign dragons to provide adequate coverage for his host; if Aemond were to attack them from above, the results could be devastating."

Ser Willem Royce then stood. "The Lady Jeyne Arryn has written to me, begging for a dragon to be dispatched once more to defend the Vale, as was originally promised. She fears that Aemond may soon tire of his depredations in the Riverlands, and raid greener pastures in the Vale. If the Mountain clansmen were to receive word that our seats and knights were aflame, they might choose to step up their raids."

Ser Lorent Marbrand then spoke up. "We cannot afford to divide our forces at such a critical time. Besides, the army at Tumbleton is a mere fifty leagues from the capital. It was easy to ignore Prince Daeron and the Hightowers when they were fighting in the extreme south, but they are now clearly the greatest threat to her Grace. We must needs send riders to address this new threat. We will have to dispatch some from the Riverlands, as the safety of the Queen and the Prince of Dragonstone must be our primary concern."

Rhaenyra gave Ser Marbrand a thankful pat on the arm as he spoke, before turning to those assembled. "While I agree that forces must needs be dispatched to deal with the threat, how are we to trust those we send to do as they are bid, as opposed to turning cloak as well? All of the seeds are either bastard-born or descended from bastards. Such blood is not to be trusted in times such as these."

Baela felt a cold chill run down her spine. _Is she mad? The other seeds are loyal. Gaemon vouched for the girl Nettles and his friend Maegor personally._ As agonizing as it was, she knew that if she spoke up she'd only condemn the remaining seeds further. The Queen had grown suspicious of Baela's intentions ever since her disobedient ride, and would be more likely to see Baela's support as a strike against them than a point in their favor.

Lord Celtigar was the first to speak, after scratching silvery stubble about his chin. "Bastards are treacherous by nature. It is in their blood. Betrayal comes as easily to a bastard as loyalty to trueborn men. I'd advise giving the order to seize all the remaining seeds immediately, before their nature can be allowed to bite the hand that feeds."

Ser Luthor Largent was quick to agree. "Even the chance that these men could betray you is a good enough cause to seize them, your Grace. If the Greens gain any more riders, our cause is lost. Best act now, and send them to the Stranger, before they decide to introduce us to him first."

Baela's knuckles were turning white beneath the table. She felt sick to her stomach. _One of those seeds is your cousin, Rhaenyra, bastard or not. You are better than this._ She felt she barely knew the woman sitting next to her at the table, whose purple eyes seemed to be perpetually searching the shadows for threats unseen.

Prince Joffrey was the next to speak up, his expression a mixture of guilt and anger. "Mother, Jace gave these men his word. It's not right to treat them so. To my knowledge, the others have not given us any cause to suspect them of disloyalty. We should trust them, as Jace did."

Rhaenyra's face twisted in rage at the mention of her fallen son. "Jace trusted them for naught. They couldn't save him during the Gullet, and now they've betrayed his very memory by betraying _me_."

Before she could continue, Ser Lorent spoke up. "Your Grace, I have had the opportunity to train two of these men. While they both have tempers when roused, they have given me no cause to doubt their loyalty. They are both fine young lads, eager to serve you, nothing like the two betrayers. Whilst I cannot speak for the other seeds, I will vouch personally for the honor of Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor."

Lord Corlys appeared to be eager to speak next, but before he could do so, he was interrupted by a quiet voice emanating from beneath a blood-red silken hood.

"I know not of the two Ser Marbrand vouches for, but I can speak for the girl, Nettles. She already betrayed you, my Queen. Even now she shares your husband's bed, and soon enough she will have his bastard in her belly."

 _My father? With the gap-toothed common girl?_ Baela was stunned. She knew her father was… close… with Mysaria, but she had assumed his tastes were more exotically inclined. She found herself trying to recall any instance in which he had shown a particular fondness for the girl. _To my knowledge, they never seemed particularly close. Then again, I can't have imagined the 'Lady' Mysaria approving of any other lovers._ Baela's eyes narrowed. Could this be some sort of calumny on the part of the pale dancer?

Whether it was or was not, the hall had grown conspicuously silent and icily cold. Rhaenyra seemed ready to order the arrests of the remaining seeds immediately, and as Baela opened her mouth to plead against such a course, her grandfather interjected.

"My Queen, I myself knighted Sers Gaemon and Maegor for their deeds at the Gullet. I pray you have not forgotten that they returned young Prince Viserys to your embrace. As for my grandsons, Ser Addam and Alyn, they are true Velaryons, and worthy heirs to Driftmark! Do not allow them to suffer for the misdeeds of some common whore."

As Ser Lorent and Lord Corlys had spoken before him, Maester Gerardys spoke: "In matters such as these, my Queen, the path of wisdom is to seek proof of any disloyalty before making any rash judgements."

Despite the protestations of several of the members of the Small Council, it seemed Rhaenyra was not to be moved. That seemed the case, at least, until Ser Torrhen Manderly spoke.

"My Queen, if I may, does it even matter whether the seeds we have dispatched are innocent or otherwise? Any order to have them seized would be very difficult to implement while they are so far afield. We would be forced to rely on the Pipers and the Mootons to dispose of not one, but three dragonriders. Most importantly, however, if either of those families were to fail at such a task, we would have given the seeds the perfect justification to go over to the enemy. Our _only_ choice at this point, realistically, would be to presume their innocence. As Ser Marbrand said, if we lose any more dragons we are lost."

For a few moments, the only sound in the hall was the sound of the Queen's fingernails tapping on the table. Baela thought she might be sick. Finally, the Queen drew a rasping breath, and issued her decree.

"The seeds Ser Maegor and Ser Gaemon will be assumed innocent, for the time-being. For the sake of the son they returned to my bosom, and their other services rendered. Ser Addam will also be presumed innocent, as he has remained at the Dragonpit since their departure without issue as per my orders."

Baela resisted the urge to sigh with relief, but she needn't have worried, as her grandfather visibly slumped in his seat, his features no longer contorted with the stress he had clearly felt a few moments before.

Rhaenyra spat out her next words with vitriol: "As for the common whore, she shall receive no such mercy. She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her. My prince would ne'er lay with such a low creature. You need only to look at her to know she has no drop of dragon's blood in her. It was with spells that she bound a dragon to her, and she has done the same with my lord husband. So long as he is in her thrall, Prince Daemon cannot be relied upon. Send word to Lord Mooton, let him take her at table or abed and strike her head off. Only then shall my prince be freed."

Baela resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _My father, the Rogue Prince, ensorceled? I think not. Of the two of them, he's far more likely to have employed sorcery to bed another._ _I'm sorry, Gaemon. Your loyalty has been repaid with a death warrant for your friend._

"My Queen, word ought to be sent to the Mootons, in order to begin our work in freeing the Prince. I will begin preparing a message." With that, Maester Gerardys also took his leave. As he turned from the Queen, his expression hardened, and Baela was quite sure she'd never seen the kindly old man look so disappointed in all the years she'd known him. _That… that is enough_. Baela thought to herself. _I can stay silent no longer._

"Maester Gerardys, might you wait a moment?" She asked, standing from her seat at the high table and turning to face her cousin. "My Queen, I beg of you. If my father is truly under the spell of that girl, might I go to break it? Perhaps his fatherly love will prove stronger than her sorceries. Allow me to fly to Maidenpool, in order to treat with him and convince him of the error of his ways. I promise, I _will not_ fail you." _Let me convince him to send her away, let me put this madness to rest_. As she spoke, she saw the White Worm's eyes narrow beneath her blood-red hood.

Rhaenyra regarded her with a look of suspicion. _It almost seems as though she'd forgotten I was seated in attendance_.

"Baela, as your Queen, and as your kinswoman, I could not expose you in good conscience to the likes of that witch. Your father would never forgive me if something were to happen to you. Besides, as I told my own son, I need you here, with me, to protect the city."

Whilst the Queen's tone sounded caring, her eyes remained cold. Baela knew her appeal had little chance of succeeding, but its failure had nonetheless proven infuriating. She returned to her seat, willing herself to remain silent.

The Queen sat back in her seat, straightening her posture in order to deliver her next order. "Lord Corlys, inform your grandson that he shall be departing this city tomorrow. I order him to take his dragon to Pinkmaiden, in order to meet Sers Gaemon and Maegor. The three of them are to proceed from thence immediately to Tumbleton, in order to bring Fire and Blood to the Usurper's brother and the two betrayers. If they are all loyal, as many of you seem to believe, let them prove it by dealing with those who have turned cloak. They are either to return victorious or not at all."

"Mother!" Joffrey interjected. "Let me fly with Ser Addam. If I am to be King some day, let me earn that right by Fire and Blood, as my ancestors did. Tyraxes and I shall not disappoint you."

Rhaenyra paled at his protestation. "You will not. You are too young for battle." She paused, clearly recognizing that would not be enough to dissuade him. "Joff… I need you here. If Aemond were to somehow slip by Prince Daemon whilst he is ensorceled, I will need both you and the Lady Baela to help me defend the city."

Joff's face depicted a war of emotions, with anger, humiliation, and empathy waging a brutal war for supremacy. Eventually, he offered his mother a curt nod, whilst clearly still unhappy about her verdict.

After a few moments of silence, Ser Luthor Largent's gravelly baritone echoed across the room. "Your Grace, if I may be so bold as to offer some advice, the people of the city have grown discontented at the present state of affairs. Many fear that the city will be put to the sack by the Hightowers, and resent that you have barred the gates. In conjunction with the extremely high war taxes…" he eyed Lord Celtigar from under bushy eyebrows "... I fear that the discontent may grow disruptive. I believe it would do wonders for the people's morale if you were to organize a procession from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit, in order to officially see Ser Addam off. Let the people see you, and know that you are taking measures to protect the city. This could be an opportunity to win their hearts."

Rhaenyra scoffed. "And expose myself or my son to a well-placed dagger, or bolt? I think not. Only the Seven know just how many of the footpads and catspaws in the city are under my half-brother's pay. I will give them no such opportunities to strike. Besides, if the public grows truculent, as you seem to suggest they intend to, the Gold Cloaks will see to them." Her amethyst eyes regarded Ser Luthor coldly. "That is, after all, what I pay you for."

Ser Luthor met her gaze abashedly from under his caterpillar-like eyebrows. "Yes, your Grace. Speaking of which, I must attend to them. I will organize additional patrols to discourage any… problematic… sentiments amongst the masses."

With that, Ser Luthor Largent stood, drawing up to his full, nearly seven-foot height, and marched out of the hall.

 _Oh cos. What have you done?_ As Ser Luthor left the hall, those left assembled seemed unaware of what to do or say next.

Her grandfather broke the silence. "Your grace, I will send for my grandson. I understand your reasoning for ruling out a procession, but I do think it would be proper to arrange for a suitable send-off." He turned to Baela, and smiled. "Perhaps he'll be able to tell you just how much your Moondancer has grown since you last saw her."

Baela smiled back, but it was hard to feel truly at ease after the last hour. _The Queen seems to be allowing fear to guide her every action._ Internally, she was both sorry for her cousin and furious at her ruling regarding Nettles. Each new day of war and betrayal stripped Rhaenyra of a bit more of the woman she used to be.

Realising she had remained silent for too long, she spoke up: "I… would certainly like to hear of her progress, grandfather. I would appreciate any such news from Addam."

Her grandfather's eyes twinkled. "I'll make sure to inform him of your request, my sweet." With a wink, he turned back to the Queen, who nodded her assent to his request.

"Bring Ser Addam before the Iron Throne and I will see him off, Lord Velaryon. Be quick about it. Time is awasting, and the two betrayers must needs be brought to justice."

As Lord Corlys strode from the chamber, Baela begged the Queen's leave to return to her chambers. Prince Joffrey quickly chimed in, and they were able to secure her agreement together. As they exited the hall, the last thing Baela heard was Lord Celtigar bringing a new financial proposal to the Queen concerning "a tax on whores."

* * *

As they strode the hallways, Joffrey seemed unusually quiet. Baela decided she'd be the one to break the silence.

"Joff, I can see that you're troubled. You know that you can share whatever it is with me."

The Prince of Dragonstone raised his brown eyes to meet hers, and she could see tears in their corners.

"I feel like a coward, Baela. What use is a dragon when one's own mother prevents them from flying it? If I were truly brave, like Jace or Luke, I'd sneak into the city this very evening and fly to meet the enemy. How will I ever be worthy of sitting the Conqueror's throne if I cannot bring my own family's enemies to heel?"

Baela felt tears well in the corners of her own eyes. She quickly embraced him. "Oh Joff, you know that I feel the same. I would give anything to be out there, flying with my father and the seeds. Alas, we cannot." She thought for a moment about what to say next. "You know… maybe it takes a bit of bravery to stay behind. If you are to be King some day, then you'll need to protect your subjects as well as your family. Protecting the capital _is_ brave, even if it is not as glorious as chasing the Kinslayer in the Riverlands."

Joff nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I suppose you're right, Baela. I just… I just want to be remembered as _brave_ , the way my brothers will be. I don't want to be the Prince that clung to his mother's skirts. When I was in the Vale, protecting Lady Jeyne and your sister, I felt like a true Prince. I felt worthy of Tyraxes. Ever since I've arrived here, I feel as though that has been stripped from me, as though I am but a child."

Baela smiled. "Joff, I'm going to say to you what someone very dear to me told me. You've got fire enough already, enough to burn your enemies to ash. Develop your bond with Tyraxes, learn to fight, and to rule. Take the few opportunities that remain to you within these walls to prepare yourself. When the war does reach us, as I am sure it will, you'll be ready, and all will rue the day that they left you behind."

Joffrey nodded gravely, clutching the sword at his waist. "I will do that Baela. When my time comes, I promise you, I will not hesitate. I will be _ready_."

Baela took his hands. "I believe that, wholeheartedly." She thought to herself for a moment. "You know… all the best Kings that I've known have been quite good at cyvasse."

A grin returned to Joffrey's face. "Then I suppose I'd better learn."

After completing the stroll back to her chambers, Baela had retrieved an ornately carved board from a trunk at the foot of her bed. Originally a gift to her father in Pentos, he had given it to her when he realized she had a passion for the game. Its finely carved, lacquered pieces brought back good memories of playing against her father, and against Rhaena. She quickly set up the screen between the two of them, and explained how they were to arrange their pieces. Joffrey listened intently, before eagerly arranging his pieces. He had picked the onyx pieces, leaving her with those of ivory.

The first few games went by fairly quickly, as she had the advantage of experience. At first, Joff grew wroth at the loss of his King to her dragon, but in time, he grew more fixated upon the board. In the fourth game, she narrowly avoided losing her king to one of his catapults, but was able to trap him between a trebuchet and elephant. He accepted defeat more graciously that time, clearly beginning to enjoy himself.

"Another?" He asked with a wry grin.

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the doors. Standing, she answered. Once more, she found Ser Rayford Lothston waiting outside.

"Ser Rayford, if you truly have been so taken by my beauty, you might as well say so, instead of devising paltry excuses to come knocking so often."

The knight snorted amusedly. "After serving this long at the Red Keep, I know far better than to get involved with the _Blood of the Dragon_. I do however, bring word from the Queen. She asks that both you and the Prince attend Ser Addam's departure ceremony.

Baela turned to Joffrey. "My apologies, but it appears our game must needs wait. Our presence is required in the Great Hall."

Joffrey had already arisen and nodded. "Only if you promise to play later. I _will_ be victorious at some point."

Grinning, she nodded in the affirmative. "I'll owe you one afterwards. I cannot promise you a victory, however." Before they left, she took her 'King' piece, and handed it to him. "Keep this, until we play again. That way you can hold me to my promise."

They followed Ser Rayford through the winding, torchlit halls of Maegor's Holdfast, until they eventually arrived at its gate and drawbridge. The scent of fresh air was invigorating, and she drank it in deeply. They exited over the drawbridge, taking care not to tumble into the wickedly sharp iron spikes below. Walking through the courtyard, she gazed at the sky, where the moon was beginning to rise. The stars glowed like so many pinpricks in night's veil, and Baela recalled how her father had once told her that her mother might be watching through one. _I wish I could play cyvasse with her, or show her how much Moondancer has grown, or tell her about Gaemon._ She barely remembered her mother, but from everything she had heard, she believed they would have been close. _She did tame Vhagar, after all. I can think of no greater testament to her character._

When she glanced at Joffrey, he too gazed at the stars. The winter sky was incredibly clear, and more stars were visible than usual. _Perhaps Jace and Luke are waving down at you, Joff. Despite what you might think, they are proud of you, I'm sure of it._ She was forced from her recollections as they entered the Great Hall. The skulls of the dragons of old gazed down at them as they entered, and Balerion's onyx skull seemed to grin in the light from the braziers. Rhaenyra sat imperiously at the top of the Iron Throne, and Joffrey quickly took his seat on its steps. Baela took her place on its dais, and scanned the hall. The numbers in attendance were not as great as previous ceremonies, and she surmised it was due to the Queen's paranoia. Only the most trusted lords and knights of the Queen's court stood assembled before them.

Her grandfather stood with Ser Addam before the Iron Throne, his hands on his grandson's shoulders. Addam looked resolute in his Velaryon sea green and silver. When he noticed her gaze, his deep purple eyes met hers and he smiled, giving her a nod of recognition. He was a kind man, from the times she had spoken to him previously. _Good luck on your task, Ser Addam_ , she thought to herself. _Make sure that Gaemon doesn't do anything too stupid or daring on my behalf_. She hoped that his friend Maegor would dissuade him from doing so, as he seemed to be a relatively level-headed fellow.

Rhaenyra's voice rang out from above. "Ser Addam Velaryon, I have called you before the Iron Throne this evening to charge you with a task of the utmost import. At first light tomorrow morning, you will fly for Pinkmaiden to fetch Sers Gaemon and Maegor. From thence, you will fly for Tumbleton, to give my treasonous half-brother and the two traitors their first real taste of _Fire and Blood_. I charge you to swear to fulfill this task to the best of your ability as a knight, and swear your obedience upon your sacred vows."

Ser Addam knelt before the throne. "I so swear it, my Queen. Upon my honor, I will not rest until your enemies are ashes. Let my actions henceforth be proof of my everlasting loyalty and gratefulness."

Baela turned to see Rhaenyra nod gravely, evidently satisfied. "Go then, Ser. And may your return bring news of victory."

The hall shook with cries of "Fire and Blood" and "Seven save the Queen". In the midst of the sendoff, Addam turned to his grandfather, who whispered a few words in his ear. He nodded, before turning to face her and make his way over to her.

Brushing some silver strands of hair from his eyes, Addam smiled. "My grandfather tells me that you eagerly await news of your Moondancer."

Baela nodded eagerly. "Indeed, I do. It has been far too long since I have been able to see her, let alone go for a ride."

Addam nodded. "You will be pleased to hear that she continues to grow. Soon, she'll be large enough to devour a whole ox."

Baela couldn't wait to see such things for herself. "I thank you for bringing me such tidings, Ser."

Addam looked at his feet before continuing. "My Lady, if I may be so bold, might I make a request of you?"

Baela couldn't help but be intrigued. "Go on, Ser."

"I will soon fly, to an uncertain fate. Over these last few weeks since your arrival, I can assure you I have been quite taken by your beauty. You would do me a great honor if you would allow me to carry your favor along with me for the duration of this task."

Baela's stomach lurched. "I…"

Glancing over Addam's shoulder, she saw her grandfather watching them with great interest. _I could give much away by refusing, but I cannot in good conscience agree to such an act_. Addam stared at her expectantly. Suddenly, her grandfather's behavior over the last several weeks began to make much more sense. _He seeks to solidify Addam's claims to Driftmark with a marital alliance. And what better partner than his own granddaughter?_ Despite her misgivings, she knew what she had to do.

"I… cannot grant you such a boon in good faith Ser." She paused. "I hope you can forgive me?"

Addam's eyes widened in surprise. _Evidently he was not prepared for this response._ "I… suppose I can find forgiveness in my heart, my Lady."

As he turned from her, his face must have given away what had transpired to their grandfather. Corlys' eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing. Baela felt a chill run down her spine. _Please, grandfather. Don't start asking too many questions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So you've made it to the end of the chapter. Impressive! Thanks again for taking the time to read this. As you already know by now, Rhaenyra has just made some pretty fateful decisions that will have a dramatic effect as time goes on. Addam flies on his fateful journey, but this time, he will be stopping to rendezvous with two more dragon-riders. Tumbleton awaits!


	22. Tumbleton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it ladies and gents. We've made it. Its been wonderful reading all of the comments and reactions to the story so far. After you've read it, let us know what you think! While this is by no means the end of this tale, it is certainly its most climactic moment yet. The Dragons will truly dance in this chapter, and the world will tremble. Without further ado...

**Tumbleton**

**Gaemon**

Initially, nothing about the morning seemed out of place. Gaemon had risen from his bed, shaking his weary form awake, before gazing out from the narrow windows of the Lord's chamber at the yard below, watching the servants scurry about fulfilling their first tasks for the day. He felt particularly strong sympathy for a lad who was struggling to carry a full chamberpot out of the castle, holding it gingerly to avoid any spills. _That was me, less than a year ago_.

Opening the trunk at the base of his bed, he went about donning his riding leathers, preparing himself mentally for another day of searching the lands watered by the Red Fork for any sign of the Kinslayer. Frustratingly, despite riding the oldest and largest of the dragons, Aemond had proven to be an elusive enemy. _In this past week or so, he's shown a remarkable degree of restraint_. When they had departed, Gaemon and Maegor had been informed that Aemond's was a brash, cruel, and headstrong personality. It seemed the war had calmed him, or at the very least impressed upon him the value of patience. _That still does not explain his ability to seemingly know of our movements the moment we make them._ Each day, they had ranged further from Pinkmaiden, their searches taking them further and further north. Riverrun's obstinate insistence on neutrality was also proving troublesome, as they were forced to steer clear of Riverrun and its associated lands. _For all we know, the Tullys could be hiding Aemond._ Sooner or later, they planned on paying Lord Grover Tully a visit, and impressing upon him the value of cooperation.

As he finished dressing for the day, he turned to Maegor, who'd done the same. The fellow seed had finally taken Gaemon's advice the last several nights, asking Pinkmaiden's maester for a dram of milk of the poppy before bed each night to ease him into a calm, dreamless slumber. Since doing so, his dreams had ceased tormenting him, and he was finally beginning to show signs of being well-rested again. They made their way to the chamber's door, and Gaemon simulated an overexaggerated courtier's bow, allowing Maegor to exit the chamber first with the words: "after you, m'lord."

They descended the winding stairs of the tower into the great hall quickly, finding Lord Stanton and his sisters breaking their fast. As they entered the hall, the Piper siblings stood in unison, allowing the seeds to take their seats before they returned to theirs. Melony, or 'Mel' as she insisted Gaemon call her, was in good spirits. As a servant hurried over to offer him a bowl of honeyed porridge and a freshly baked apple tart, she began to speak.

"Gaemon, you won't believe me, but last night I had the most fantastical of dreams. I dreamt that you returned this evening with news that you vanquished the Kinslayer. You presented me with the sapphire he wore in place of his lost eye, insisting that I wear it as a token of your gratitude." She giggled, and Gaemon couldn't help but smile. "It was ever _so_ ghoulish, but I couldn't refuse you, so I began searching for a goldsmith. I was ever so disappointed to wake up!" She paused, grinning. Placing her hand on his, she continued: "I must know, do you think a sapphire would compliment my features? And should I have it set in gold, or silver?"

Gaemon chuckled. _Her tenacity is to be respected, even though she herself knows it is a futile endeavor_. "I think we ought to pose that question to Aemond, as ultimately he has a bit more at stake in the matter."

Melony pursed her lips. "Aemond is a cruel sort. He'd never be so charitable as to donate a bauble to enhance a woman's beauty."

Gaemon sighed sarcastically. "Truly, his selfishness knows no bounds."

Before their banter could continue, the bells of Pinkmaiden's sept began to clang frantically. A few moments later, an older man, clad in mail and leathers, burst into the hall.

"Dragon m'lord! Approaching from the East. One o' the lads spotted it a few moments ago.

Gaemon felt a cold chill in his stomach. Acting out of instinct, he sprang up from his seat and ran across the hall. _We should have never left such an easily exploitable opening in our defenses. All is lost if I cannot reach the Cannibal in time._ To his right he saw Maegor sprinting for the doors of the hall. Both of their dragons roosted on the hillside right outside of the castle walls, but given how quickly a dragon flew, they'd likely never reach them in time. As they entered the courtyard, a dragon's screech split the early morning air. He could feel the air in the courtyard buffet him from the beat of the dragon's wings. He turned to face the dragon, intending to die with a curse on his lips, before feeling his fear replaced by confusion. One hundred feet above him, gently flapping its wings to remain aloft, was a pale silver-grey dragon, instead of a monstrous green beast. _I should have inquired about the dragon's color_. Gaemon began to laugh.

It had not taken long for Seasmoke and it's rider to land outside the castle walls. Both the Grey Ghost and the Cannibal seemed to be ambivalent towards it; while not overtly hostile it was clear that they had not had many interactions with the silver-grey beast previously. The three dragons stared at one another somewhat cautiously as their three riders conversed. Addam Velaryon, clad in his silver and sea-green, greeted them somberly after he had dismounted. He did not take long to get to the point.

"Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer have forsaken the Queen's cause. Instead of defending Tumbleton and its loyal lord, they put it to the torch and allowed the Greens to put it to the sack. Her Grace has ordered me to retrieve the both of you, so that we might bring Fire and Blood to the betrayers before they can properly menace King's Landing."

Gaemon was stunned, and glancing at Maegor, could see that he felt the same. _Ulf and Hugh were arseholes, to be sure, but betrayal? Have they gone mad?_ A chill ran down his spine. _So that's what they meant when they spoke with us within the Dragonpit_. The more he thought about it, the less surprising their actions were. _Would that I had known what they were planning then. I cannot change the past, but I can make sure that this is their last crime._ He clenched his fist. He knew what they had to do.

A few moments later, the three seeds found themselves in Pinkmaiden's hall. A table had been moved to the center of the room, and the maester had spread a map of the Seven Kingdoms before them, apologizing that it was "a bit outdated, surveyed in the reign of the Old King."

Assuring the maester it was no trouble, he turned to the map. Tumbleton itself was a few hundred leagues from Pinkmaiden, resting along the headwaters of the Mander. _A mere fifty or so leagues from the capital. It took us hours to fly from King's Landing to Pinkmaiden. We must needs depart soon, time will be of the essence._

Clearing his throat, he spoke up. "As we all can see, we will need to depart as soon as possible in order to reach our target within a day's time. The enemy possesses three dragons, two of which are of much greater size and strength than either the Grey Ghost or Seasmoke. We have two advantages: surprise, and our speed. We will need to make good use of both in order to overcome our foes."

Pausing, he worked out the details in his head. "This is what I propose: We will depart immediately, following the Blackwater Rush until we reach the bridge where the Goldroad crosses it. Afterwards, we will turn due south. If we follow this correctly, we ought to be positioning ourselves to arrive over Tumbleton in the early morning hours, perhaps ideally during the hour of the nightingale. When we are close, the Hightower army's campfires will light our approach." He raised his gaze, looking from Addam, to Maegor. Purple and Blue eyes gazed back, hardened with resolve.

"We will bring Fire and Blood to these animals, and give them a chance to reap what they've sown. We shall impress upon them the terror of a dragon's ire." The other two seeds nodded. "The army of the Hightowers is nothing without their dragons. Our attack will force our true enemies to take to the skies, where, luck willing, we will slay them."

Maegor leaned over, studying the map one final time, before meeting his gaze. "I have one favor to ask of you, Gaemon."

Raising an eyebrow, he nodded for him to continue.

"Leave the sot to me."

Gaemon nodded gravely, before smiling a cold, cruel smile. "I'd have expected nothing less."

Turning to Addam, he continued. "Your Seasmoke is a good deal older than Prince Daeron's Tessarion. Do whatever it takes to bring them down. In most circumstances, the Prince would make for an excellent hostage. In light of his recent actions, however, _just kill the bastard._ "

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself for the final foe. "Hugh Hammer flies Vermithor, the Old King's own dragon. The Bronze Fury is easily the second largest living dragon. As the rider of the largest dragon available to us, I will be responsible for bringing the smith's bastard down." Running a hand through his hair, he smiled, willing his apprehension away. "It is time to see just how vicious of a bugger the Cannibal really is."

The other two seeds were silent, but they nodded their agreement to the plan. Turning to Lord Stanton and his sisters, who had stood in silence during the planning, Gaemon addressed them.

"Lord Stanton, while our stay has been sadly been cut short, I want to take the opportunity to thank you for your hospitality. I will make sure that her Grace the Queen is well-informed of the succor you provided. I will always count House Piper amongst my friends."

Lord Stanton smiled, and bowed. Turning to Lady Melony, he took her hand, placing a kiss upon it, before meeting her eyes.

"Lady Mel… I want to thank you for all you have done. You've made me feel truly welcome in your home, _and_ taught me to appreciate the art of dancing. For that, you'll have my eternal gratitude. I hope our paths cross again." With a wink, he added: "besides, I'll still owe you that sapphire."

Smiling, Melony nodded, before planting a kiss on his cheek as quickly as lightning. _She is good_ , he thought with a smile.

Maegor was the next to pay his respects, thanking Lord Stanton and the Lady Catelyn for their impeccable hosting. Planting a kiss on the Lady Catelyn's outstretched hand, he blushed as she returned the favor with a kiss on his cheek. Gaemon resisted the powerful urge to comment on his friend's embarrassment.

Addam thanked the Piper's for sharing their home briefly, and apologized for alarming them earlier. Turning, the three exited into the yard, and squires assisted them in donning their black plate. As the dark steel enveloped him, he was struck by the irony of the situation. _The last time the Pipers hosted a claimant, it was the rightful heir Aegon, preparing to fight his uncle for his rights. Now, they are hosts to a second Maegor, fighting against a second Aegon. The gods do love their cruel ironies._

Buckling his sword belt to his waist, he took his dragon whip in hand, exiting the castle along with the others. Pulling his leather bag from around his neck, he withdrew Baela's lock of hair, giving it a kiss for good luck, before returning it safely to around his chest. The other seeds starred inquisitively, and Gaemon could have sworn he saw some sort of reaction in Addam's eyes.

Reaching the dragons, he cracked the whip for good measure, and the Cannibal's massive, coal black form stirred, uncoiling and gazing at him with eyes of wildfire. After the saddle was affixed, he climbed atop his mount, fastening his chains, before cracking the whip once more. The mass of rippling scale and muscle beneath him lurched forward, beating its great leathery wings several times before finally propelling itself aloft. As he gazed beneath him, the walls of Pinkmaiden swarmed with smallfolk, servants, and guards. On the battlements above the gate, Lord Stanton and his sisters grew smaller and smaller, waving goodbye.

* * *

They flew throughout the day, and into the night. As the sun fell, cold winds buffeted them. _It seems the winds of winter have finally arrived_. It proved easy enough to follow the Blackwater Rush as they had planned, and despite his initial concerns, they were able to find the great stone bridge that marked the next leg of their journey. Turning south, they flew over the vast fields of the northern Reach, as of yet largely unspoiled by war. Tiny villages and holdfasts flew by beneath them, their torchlight the only sign of human occupancy. Gaemon began to fear that they might have missed Tumbleton altogether, but as they flew further south, he began to smell smoke in the air. At first he thought he might've been imagining, but the smell grew more and more powerful as time went on. Soon, a sea of campfires became visible on the horizon, and with it, the smell of rotting corpses. Fighting the urge to gag, he steeled himself for the great test to come. As the smell grew stronger and more sickening, a thought crossed his mind: _I have not exposed men to a dragon's flaming wroth since the Gullet, but I can think of no host so deserving of it_.

As they flew over the sea of campfires, he could see a vast army asleep beneath him, completely unaware of their doom above them. What remained of Tumbleton still smoked beneath him, and in the fields beyond sat the great tents and pavilions of the Lords of the Reach, almost too many to count. Cracking his whip, he urged the Cannibal to roar. His mount did not disappoint. It's roar echoed across the stones of the ruined city and amidst the camps below. Gaemon tensed as the sound poured over him. _For the Queen. For Baela_. _For Prince Jacaerys_. _For the people of Bitterbridge and Tumbleton_. _Fire and Blood_.

The Cannibal's first great green gout of flame caught a row of tents along the Mander alight, it's heat so intense that those struck virtually evaporated. Several more rows of tents nearby caught alight simply due to their proximity to the blast. The shores of the Mander were soon awash in flames, the green pyres dancing in the night. Further afield, the Grey Ghost and Seasmoke bathed other portions of the camp in hellfire, and it wasn't long before shouts of surprise turned to screams of pain and terror below them. It was akin to the times he had poked an anthill as a child. In mere moments, hundreds of men streamed from their tents, some aflame, running this way and that in sheer panic. Despite the horror of the scene below him, and despite the sickening smells of burning flesh, Gaemon was at peace with his actions. _This was long overdue._ Again and again he brought the Cannibal swooping across the fields, feeling the intense heat wash over him each time he grew close to the surface, his dragon's flames immolating those beneath them.

The sun began to dawn on a Tumbleton once more awash in flame. The three seeds spared the city for two reasons: firstly, they wished to spare any surviving townspeople the horror of their flames, and secondly, they predicted that the betrayers would be within the city, and wished to draw them out. As he continued to burn the army beneath him, Gaemon gripped his whip tightly. _Come on you bastards, you can't have been killed already! Come on, and FACE us!_ After he had destroyed another portion of the camp, setting some orange tents with three castles upon them alight, he got his answer.

From within the city, a massive roar split the skies, echoed quickly by another. From within Tumbleton's keep, two magnificent beasts took to the air, the morning sun glinting off of their bronze and silver scales. From amidst the fields, another roar sounded, and a young cobalt dragon lifted itself into the sky. Seasmoke and its rider cut a strafing run short, soaring to meet Tessarion. The silver-grey and cobalt dragons began to chase one another, blue and silver blasts of flame lighting up the morning sky. As they wheeled and danced amidst the clouds, Gaemon was taken aback by the beauty of the sight. _It is as though they are dancing_.

Shaking his head, he turned. Grey Ghost darted from amidst a group of clouds, roaring and sending a blast of roiling white flame at Silverwing. The much larger dragon screamed in protest before flying after its attacker. _Good luck, Maegor_. The Bronze Fury wheeled about above Tumbleton's citadel, gaining altitude, before turning and flying towards Gaemon and the Cannibal, roaring its challenge. The Cannibal's response was chilling. Instead of roaring a response, it simply hissed. From where he was perched, he could see his mount open its maw, baring its coal black fangs as smoke billowed out between them. It's eyes were more alight than he'd ever seen them. The two dragons crossed the distance between them quickly, and he braced himself for impact. Vermithor roared once more, its great bronze maw opening to release a searing jet of brass flames. The Cannibal rolled in the air, gracefully avoiding the majority of the blast, before twisting its form back as Vermithor gathered its breath for another. It would not get the opportunity, however, as the coal black dragon slammed headlong into the larger beast midair.

Both beasts struggled to remain aloft as they tore at one another, using their legs and wicked talons to try and gain purchase on the other. The sheer force of the impact rattled Gaemon, and were it not for his saddle chains he'd have plummeted to his death hundreds of feet below. From his vantage point, he could not see all that was happening, but he could hear the sounds of claws scraping while great scaled jaws snapped and hissed. Suddenly, Vermithor's great bronze head drew back, revealing that once more its brass flames welled within its maw. Given the proximity, the blast was likely to kill them both. As Vermithor inhaled, Gaemon closed his eyes, preparing himself. The end never came. Instead, he heard the sound of jaws snapping shut and a gurgling, draconic yelp.

Opening his eyes, he saw coal black jaws enclosed around a bronze neck. Vermithor struggled in the vice, its smoking blood pouring from the Cannibal's jaws. It scrabbled desperately with its claws and wings, and Gaemon narrowly avoided being crushed as one wing clawed along his mount's spiked back for purchase. His dragon twisted beneath him violently, its muscled form surging all at once. A ear splitting crack sounded, and Vermithor went still. Its powerful bronze form began to plummet towards the earth, its jaws hanging open limply while dark blood poured from its neck. Perched atop its back, Hugh Hammer cracked his whip about desperately, clearly unwilling to accept what had transpired. The fallen dragon grew more distant with each passing second, until it collided with the earth, sending a great cloud of dust and smoke swirling into the air. The Cannibal beat its wings powerfully, oblivious to its many wounds, as it gazed at its fallen foe. Its roar shattered the heavens.

* * *

**Maegor**

Though the sun was beginning to rise in the east, the camp burned brightly enough below to rival even sunlight in its intensity. Many of the pavilions and tents had become a twisting, churning inferno, burning with a sorcerous green, pearly white, or smoky silver color. It hadn't taken long for their true quarry to climb into the sky on dragonback. As bronze Vermithor and Silverwing took to the air from the ruined town of Tumbleton, a cobalt dragon took to the sky from within the midst of the burning camp.

 _Good_ , Maegor thought, _I won't suffer any of these dragonriders escaping this fight_. As Silverwing and Vermithor flew forth from Tumbleton, Maegor urged Grey Ghost further into the clouds above. As he and the Grey Ghost were enveloped by a cloud, Maegor suddenly saw naught but white, wispy mist. It was as though he were out on the waters off Dragonstone again on some early morn, catching fish. Maegor shivered within his armor. The early winter air was cold, and Maegor had found the air became cooler and thinner the further into the skies one soared.

Just as suddenly as he and the Grey Ghost had entered the cloud, they had broken free of it, and Maegor once again was greeted by the sight of a world awash in flame far below him. He was flying at a height above Silverwing, as he had hoped. Turning the Grey Ghost in the direction of the Sot's dragon, Maegor urged it to dive straight down at the dragon. As it did, the Grey Ghost unleashed a jet of its blisteringly-hot pearl white flame at Silverwing.

Though Ulf and his mount were surprised by Maegor's sudden attack, they were largely able to avoid the flame. To do so, however, Silverwing had to violently jerk to the side as it flew, causing it to shriek loudly in rage. In that moment, Maegor was so close to the other dragon and its rider that he could see Ulf perched atop its back, wearing bits and pieces of his black steel plate. _I'd wager that he shambled out of some drunken stupor to take flight_.

The Sot was missing much of his armor, including his helm. The instant in which Maegor saw Ulf atop Silverwing seemed to drag on for a lifetime. The other seed's hazel eyes glared hatefully at Maegor, as he raised and cracked his whip about Silverwing's head. _The feeling is mutual, you wine-soaked traitor. One of us will be dead before the morning is done, and I certainly don't intend for it to be me_.

The Grey Ghost gracefully twisted and turned clear of a blast of flame that Silverwing sent at it, and at Maegor's urging, began to fly away quickly. As Maegor had hoped, Ulf gave furious pursuit atop his own mount, flying further and further away from his fellow dragonriders as they fought their own battles in the sky. Maegor smiled grimly beneath his helm. The best that he could do for Gaemon and Addam was to ensure that they were able to take on their foes without fear of being attacked by another enemy dragon.

Maegor flew in the direction of the Mander, which flowed alongside Tumbleton. Below him, he could see many soldiers of the Hightower army fleeing towards its waters to escape the growing inferno behind them. The fields and grasses that they had encamped in were brittle and dry as winter arrived, and proved excellent kindling to spread the dragonflame rapidly in all directions.

Though the Grey Ghost was capable of flying much faster on such a clear morn, Maegor only allowed him to fly fast enough to stay just out of reach of Silverwing and her flames. Reaching the wide waters of the Mander, Maegor turned the Grey Ghost and flew southwest along them, waiting for Ulf to commit to following his route before he sprang his trap.

"NOW!" Maegor shouted, and the Grey Ghost shot a jet of its pearl-white flame directly into the Mander below it as it flew. The water at the surface boiled instantly, and great white plumes of super-heated mist shot near instantaneously into the air, a miasma that was as suffocating as it was disorienting.

Without hesitation, Maegor urged the Grey Ghost straight up into the air, as fast as the dragon could fly. The jarring sensation of flying straight up at such an intense speed nearly made Maegor vomit, and he had to swallow some bile as it roiled briefly in his throat. Looking down at the large cloud of mist below him and the Grey Ghost, Maegor waited for his opportunity.

Just as he had hoped, Silvering broke free of the cloud at a much lower height, both dragon and rider unsuspecting of Maegor and the Grey Ghost's deception. The moment he spotted them, Maegor urged the Grey Ghost down towards them from directly above, with as much speed as possible. The Ghost descended the distance between itself and Silverwing in hardly more than a heartbeat, its massive razor-sharp claws extended.

For a scant moment, Maegor watched as Ulf the Sot was enveloped by shadow and twisted in his saddle to look up at his doom. It all happened so quickly that the man had no time to react. In one moment he sat atop his dragon, clutching his whip and looking at the dragon bearing down on him as his brittle white hair whipped about in the wind. In the next, he had been crushed beneath the Grey Ghost's claws.

The impact of the Grey Ghost slamming into Silverwing from above sent a jarring strum of pain throughout the entirety of Maegor's body. He felt for a moment as though he were a string on a bard's lute that had just been plucked, as the collision rattled him to his core. Maegor rocked forward violently in his saddle, his saddle chains straining to keep him from being thrown free and plummeting to his death.

Below him, Silverwing let out an ear-piercing shriek of pain and fury as the Grey Ghost's talons sank deep into the meat of her back, tearing savagely at the muscles and tendons that connected Silverwing's wings to the rest of her body. Maegor urged the Grey Ghost back into the air with urgency, cracking his whip desperately. _If Silverwing manages to in some way seize Grey Ghost, we will all fall to the earth and die._

Thankfully, the Grey Ghost was able to tear his talons free of Silverwing and fling himself back into the sky as Silverwing continued to plummet downwards. Boiling blood was gushing from the massive rents along her back, but she managed to shakily extend her wings and careen in a controlled spiral to the bank of the Mander below. She crashed and skidded along the ground, before turning her head to the sky and letting forth one final enraged shriek to the heavens. Turning the Grey Ghost back in the direction of the burning camp, Maegor flew towards it with cold and hateful intent. _I'm not nearly finished_.

Maegor felt a sense of relief when he saw Gaemon still in the air atop Cannibal. _He must have won. But where are Hugh and Vermithor?_ He found his answer moments later, when a glance at the inferno below revealed the broken form of Vermithor sprawled lifelessly amongst the blazing tents and pavilions.

A piercing shriek caught Maegor's attention, and when he turned to look, he saw Tessarion descending haphazardly from the early morning sky, with massive tears along her wings that greatly impeded her movements and hastened her descent. It crashed to the ground on its belly, and dragged itself a short distance before expiring and going still. Addam Velaryon circled above his kill in the sky for several moments, before turning his attention and that of his dragon Seasmoke back to the camp below.

Maegor did the same, turning the Grey Ghost in the direction of a mob of fleeing soldiers making a break from the camp's southern edge. The Grey Ghost cut a burning swathe through them with pearl-white hellfire, and Maegor watched with grim satisfaction as the survivors of his attack desperately scattered in all directions. He felt no pity or remorse as he watched men burn and writhe below him, their distant howls and shrieks almost mingling with the roaring crackle of flame.

 _Let them have a taste of Hell now, before they languish in it for eternity._ The people of Bitterbridge and Tumbleton had been burned, raped, and murdered, with their corpses left to rot in the sun amongst the ruins of what had once been their homes. _And we, the Queen's dragonriders, sat doing nothing in King's Landing while her people suffered and died_. The army of House Hightower had accrued an evil and blood-soaked debt as they marched to King's Landing, and Maegor was more than willing to make them pay the price.

Flying further south, Maegor began setting tall grasses alight, watching with satisfaction as cold winter winds blew the flames north, in the direction of the camp and fleeing soldiers. _It's as though the Gods themselves are making their wroth known._ Maegor's fist was clutching the handle of his dragonwip so tightly that it was beginning to cause him pain. He only clutched it tighter, and felt his heart harden. _There will be no escape_.

Maegor continued to burn the camp below, and any soldiers that were unfortunate enough to catch his attention as they fled. He felt as though his blood was boiling in his veins, and his heart hammered painfully against his ribcage. Maegor's teeth were gritted together so tightly that his breaths came in short, hissing gasps. _Burn. Burn and die_.

How much senseless suffering and destruction had been caused by these men? How many innocent lives ended in agony on the whims of evil men who thought that they would face no retribution? _I am the retribution. The Grey Ghost and I are the Stranger made flesh, and I will send every last one of them to Hell in shrouds of flame_.

Maegor had never truly realized the depths of anger and hatred that resided in the darkest corners of his soul. All his life, he had watched people be taken advantage of, from the village he was born in, to the castles he now walked the halls of. He had never understood why some people took such pleasure in inflicting cruelties on others, and over the years of his life such confusion had turned into a burning anger. Maegor had gotten so good at hiding the anger within himself that sometimes he himself forgot that it always remained, a red-hot ember that never extinguished.

 _Blood of the Dragon_ , his father Denys had called such anger. Within their village, Silver Denys and his sons had been notorious for their fearsome tempers, with the exception of Maegor. Denys had taken pride in the rage and wroth that his elder sons had occasionally exhibited, claiming that such displays proved that the blood of King Maegor the Cruel flowed strongly in their veins.

Maegor's temperament had never entirely pleased his father. _Such a quiet boy,_ the people of the village would say. When he was a child, before the death of his mother, the cabin boy of a visiting ship had beaten Maegor and stolen a wooden toy that Denys had carved for his nameday. When he had run home to the arms of his mother in tears, Denys had grown wroth with him, shouting that _"no descendant of King Maegor gives up without a fight"_.

In the end, Maegor had made his way back up to the village, sniffling and dreading having to fight the cabin boy again. However, he quickly found out that Gaemon had already hunted down the cabin boy and beaten him bloody, taking back the carved toy. With a grin and a bloody nose, Gaemon had returned the toy to Maegor. Though Maegor was grateful to his friend, he had felt a sudden embarrassment and shame for not being able to win his own fight. More than shame, however, Maegor had felt _rage_.

 _It has always been there_ , Maegor thought as he burned another row of tents. He supposed that he was much like the Dragonmont. Large and outwardly placid, but with a searing fire burning in its heart. _And when I am provoked_ … Maegor realized that his rage was rather like a volcano erupting as well. _My fire will burn them all to ash_.

It was then that Maegor noticed that white flags were beginning to appear throughout the burning camp. Bloody and soot-stained, any piece of white cloth that could be scrounged was tied to spears, axe hafts, and poles before being flung desperately into the air. _They are unconditionally surrendering. They want succor._ Maegor's heart and resolve hardened. _No. They all must needs burn and die_.

However, Maegor could see that both Cannibal and Seasmoke had stopped their burning and began to circle in the sky, clearly planning on ending their attack. Looking down, Maegor could see that the camp was an utter ruin. The flames burned as far as the eye could see, and even as high in the sky as he was, Maegor could see countless charred corpses strewn in the hundreds, if not _thousands_ , below.

 _It isn't enough_ , Maegor thought, his vision tinged red in its corners. _They spared none, so why should we?_ He knew that if he continued his burning, Gaemon and Addam would be unable to accept the survivors' surrender. _I am the blood of King Maegor, and I will burn all my enemies to ash, as he did_. Unbidden, a memory of Septon Bennard slipped out from the edge of his thoughts, struggling to be seen through the haze of hate and rage.

" _I HATE them!" Maegor had shouted, referring to the other children in the almshouse. They incessantly called him names, and hit him when he tried to play with them after they had all finished their chores for the day._

" _They are young like you Maegor, and many were abandoned here by their parents the moment they were born. They have known naught but grief all their lives, and such pain turns the hearts of many cruel." Bennard responded sympathetically, with a sorrowful expression on his face._

" _I know grief too!" Maegor shouted back, feeling hot tears run down his cheeks. He missed his mother every day, and wanted nothing more than to go home and see his brothers and father again. He couldn't bring himself to understand why his father had left him at the almshouse, where he was miserable and had nothing to do but read the books and scraps of parchment that Septon Bennard gave him._

" _I know you do, Maegor," Septon Bennard began, placing a kind hand on Maegor's shoulder. "And I also know how easy it is to hate." Bennard smiled gently. "It is harder, however, to be the one to take a step back, or to lower a clenched fist than to strike with it."_

_Bennard squeezed Maegor's shoulder. "You're strong Maegor, stronger than most people I have known. And you have a kind heart. That is rarer still. Being the better person is one of the hardest things in the world to do, and most are too weak to even try. But you have that strength, Maegor. If you ignore it, then it will go to waste and be lost forever. However, if you cultivate it, you will have a treasure that even Kings will envy, and no-one will be able to take from you as long as you live."_

_Scrubbing the tears from his cheeks with his arm, Maegor nodded at the Septon. "I'll try, Septon Bennard," he said quietly._

_Septon Bennard beamed at him. "That is all that any of us can do."_

Maegor took a deep breath, and felt the inferno of hate and rage within him recede. Looking down on the destruction beneath him and the Grey Ghost, he no longer felt any grim satisfaction with what he saw. _It's over. The blood debt has been paid_. The survivors below him were utterly broken, surrounded by the twisted and charred corpses of their comrades. Even more continued to flee in scattered groups south.

Maegor turned the Grey Ghost to join the Cannibal and Seasmoke in their descent to the ground. Maegor frowned as he looked at the burned remains of Tumbleton. _I have in no way forgiven them for their evil. But they have also surrendered. They are no longer mine to judge with dragonflame. They shall face the Queen's judgement now_.


	23. Hobert Iv

**Hobert IV**

The three dragonriders awaited them on a sparse hillside beyond the burning remains of the army's camp. Hobert looked around as though he were in a dream, a particularly horrific nightmare that he desperately hoped to wake from. There had been a morning chill to the air, but following the attack it was as hot as the brightest summer day. Hobert smelled naught but ash, and had to be mindful to avoid several patches of flame that still burned brightly on the ground amongst the ashes of the dry grasses they'd consumed.

Hobert sat atop an unfamiliar mount, given to him by one of Jon Roxton's knights. The knight of the Ring had taken up residence within the former Lord Footly's bedchamber inside Tumbleton's castle, and because of it had completely avoided the devastating attack of the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders. Bold Jon and his men had sallied forth from the ruins of the town as the burning stopped, only to find hollow-eyed men covered in ash and clutching makeshift white flags and banners of surrender.

Roxton rode alongside Hobert now, among several surviving Lords and landed knights of the army that had been scrounged from amongst the ashes of the camp. _A scarce few men, considering the multitude of nobility we counted amongst our ranks even a day before_. The other men riding along with Hobert and Ser Jon included Lord Unwin Peake, Hobert's goodson and head of House Norcross Ser Tyler, and Ser Roger Corne, one of the knights of the Blackwater loyal to King Aegon who had thrown open the gates of Tumbleton to Lord Ormund's army. Of the other landed knights and Lords of the army, Hobert knew nothing of their fates. _And mayhaps we never will_. Many of the corpses that he'd passed were so horrifically charred and burned that there was no way to identify the men they once were.

Of the party riding to meet the usurper's dragonriders, only Jon Roxton truly looked the part of a nobleman, sitting tall in full plate and wearing a blue surcoat bearing the golden rings of his House's sigil in gold thread. The rest of the Lords and knights wore scorched clothing, and were caked in so much gray ash that they had the look of ghosts. Most including Hobert sat numbly in their saddles, regarding the world around them expressionlessly through vacant eyes. Though his clothes were as burned and coated in ash as Hobert's, Lord Unwin Peake clutched his reins tightly, a defiant fire still burning within his eyes.

No such defiance remained within Hobert. _We have been soundly defeated_. _It's over_. Hobert hoped that Rhaenyra Targaryen would allow him a quick death. _Let me pay the price on my family's behalf_. He dreaded what fate the usurper had in mind for House Hightower. _At this point, my kin will have to consider themselves lucky if Rhaenyra does naught more than issue bills of attainder_. Though he had been accompanied by plenty of very distant cousins, Hobert was the last of the members of the main line of House Hightower who had marched from Oldtown to uphold King Aegon's rights. _And my life will end at the executioner's block, rather than as I'd always hoped it would, within my cherished home, the Hightower._

The ride up the hillside did not take long, and Hobert reined in his borrowed horse along with the others as they came to face the three dragons that had brought such devastation to their army. The smallest was a grey-white color, while the second largest had scales of pale silver-grey. The largest dragon was significantly larger than the other two, with jet black scales and burning green eyes that Hobert could hardly bring himself to look upon.

The three dragonriders all continued to sit atop their dragons, but had removed their helms. Of the three, only one bore the fabled looks of Valyria. _The other two look decidedly… common._ The rider atop the massive black dragon had red hair and green eyes, while the rider on the small grey-white dragon had brown hair and blue-grey eyes. The red-haired dragonrider was the first to speak, his voice cold and dispassionate. "Based on the tattered white rags you raised, we hope that you have come to offer your unconditional surrender. The Queen will be most eager to hear of our victory here today."

Beside Hobert, Jon Roxton tensed in his saddle. _By the Gods, Jon, please don't try anything. One wrong move or word will mean the death of all of us that remain._ Bold Jon, blessedly, relaxed his posture after a moment, but made his disdain for the riders known through a cold and chilling glare.

Whether or not the riders had seen Roxton's demeanor, the silver-haired dragonrider began to speak, motioning at his two fellows beside him as he did so. "We do not wish to tarry here long. We must needs negotiate the exact terms of your capitulation as soon as possible." The other two riders said nothing, but the red-haired rider was nodding in agreement at the silver-haired rider's words. The brown-haired rider did naught but clutch his black steel winged helm in a white-knuckled grip, glaring at Hobert and the others with such a cold ferocity that Hobert nearly shivered in his saddle.

As Hobert did his best to maintain his bearing while a deep sense of dread threatened to overtake him, Lord Unwin Peake spoke up, his tone cool and composed. "Such terms shall be discussed and agreed to as soon as possible, Sers. However, none of us can in good faith draft any terms until we are sure of the fates of the other Lords and landed knights of this army, as well as the Prince Daeron." The sight of the Lord of Starpike, Whitegrove, and Dunstonbury speaking with such authority despite being caked in ash and wearing singed raiments was ridiculous enough to make Hobert's fear-addled mind nearly force a laugh from his lips. Instead, Hobert let out a ragged cough and drew a shaking hand across his forehead, trying in vain to clean some of the ashes from his face.

The brown-haired dragonrider was the next to speak, glaring at the Lords and landed knights before him as his voice grated forth from teeth that were nearly gritted together. "I think not, my Lord. You are mistaken if you believe that you and your fellows wield any sort of bargaining power within these negotiations. The three of us will give you the remainder of this day to locate any other surviving Lords and landed knights of the army, as well as Prince Daeron. But come morn tomorrow, we will all begin drafting the terms of your surrender."

Lord Peake nodded his assent to the dragonrider's words, but his face was taut with rage. Hobert, Jon Roxton, and the other Lords and landed knights muttered their assent, before they all turned their mounts and rode back downhill into the ruins of their encampment.

* * *

"And you're sure that that is all of them?" Hobert asked, dismayed. Maester Aubrey nodded grimly in response to Hobert's question. Though many pavilions throughout the camp had been immolated, one of the largest remaining ones had been given to the surviving maesters of the army to tend to the wounded. Though Hobert's attendant knight Ser Jared was nowhere to be found, maester Aubrey had survived the wroth of the dragons and was now doing what he could to treat the awful wounds of the few men of the army that had survived being burned by dragonflame. _It seems most will not be alive by morn tomorrow, however._

Hobert and Aubrey currently stood before a cot that contained Lord Owen Fossoway. _Or rather, what remains of him_ , Hobert thought with a grimace. As bad as the man's burns were, it was a wonder to Hobert that the Lord of Cider Hall still drew breath. As horrid a thought as it was, Hobert wondered if mayhaps he should have died earlier in the day. _It seems that death is a far kinder fate than lying on a cot in agonizing pain as the Stranger tirelessly approaches._

Of all the assembled nobility of the Reach within the army, a scarce few still lived as evening arrived. Beyond the Lords and landed knights that had attended the earlier parley with the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders, only Lord Owen Fossoway and Lord Richard Rodden had been found alive amongst the ashes of the army's camp. _And Lord Fossoway will join all the others in death before the sunrise tomorrow_.

Lord Rodden's fate appeared less grim, however. Maester Aubrey had informed Hobert that the burns to Lord Richard's left leg had been so grievous that he had amputated it beneath the knee. However, the maester was confident that the man would survive as long as infection didn't set in. _One bit of good news in an otherwise truly awful day._

The Prince Daeron was another story, however. Hobert had learned that several men-at-arms had found the Prince alive and dragged him from the back of his dying dragon earlier that day, as the camp burned. Hobert had scarcely been able to believe the extent of the Prince's wounds when maester Aubrey had described them, and feared that the Prince would not take long in following his dragon from the world of the living. Despite his truly horrific wounds, however, the Prince Daeron continued to cling to life. Maester Aubrey had said that he and the other maesters would do what they could for Alicent's youngest son, but Hobert had little hope.

Hobert had wanted to visit his young kinsman in the tent the maesters had provided him, but Aubrey had asked that Hobert wait some time to see the Prince. _"I spent the better part of the afternoon treating his wounds, Ser Hobert, and what he needs now more than anything is rest,"_ the maester had said, and Hobert acquiesced to his wishes.

Bidding his goodbyes to Aubrey, Hobert exited the maesters' pavilion, and began making his way to the small tent that had been scrounged up for him to stay in. The damage done to their camp by dragonflame was extensive, and the survivors of the army had spent the better part of the day collecting what could be salvaged and setting up a new camp beyond the ruins of the old one. Gone were the brilliantly-colored lines of pavilions that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. All that remained were a scarce few singed and sooty tents and pavilions that had been hastily patched. Many of the survivors had no scrap of canvas to lay beneath, and would have to find whatever warmth they could sleeping under the open sky.

Earlier in the day, Hobert had finally been able to strip off his scorched garments and wash the soot and ash from his body along the bank of the Mander. Bathing in cold river water like a peasant was one of the last things that Hobert would have expected himself to be doing even a day before, but he supposed that he was lucky to still be alive and relatively unharmed after nearly burning alive. It was hard for him to feel fortunate, however, when he considered the fate that ultimately awaited him and all the other remaining leaders of the army. _A quick death, if the usurper Rhaenyra is merciful. If not…_ Hobert shuddered to consider the alternative.

As he approached his tent, Hobert realized just how exhausted he truly was. Despite his tiredness, Hobert doubted he would get much sleep at all. _I must needs try to get some, for it will be a long day tomorrow_. Before pulling back the flap, however, the man-at-arms standing sentry at the tent's entrance addressed Hobert. "You have several visitors, Ser. They're waiting inside." Intrigued, Hobert nodded his thanks and stepped inside.

In the dim light of a single brazier stood Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne. Hobert felt a cool tingle of apprehension run down his spine as he regarded the grim expressions across all of their faces. "Ser Hobert," Lord Unwin began, "it is time that we discussed our next plan of action."

Hobert frowned in confusion before responding. "Plan, Lord Unwin? What is there to plan? There is naught that we can do now but agree to the usurper Rhaenyra's terms, lest we all doom ourselves to be burned by dragonflame."

Lord Peake crossed his arms, responding in a curt tone. "Agree to the terms they give us? Yes, I'm afraid that we must. However, that does not mean we all must needs hang our heads in shame and wait for the usurper Rhaenyra to find time to execute us all for _treason_." Lord Peake spat out the last word with vitriol, his face contorted with anger. A moment later, however, Lord Unwin continued to speak, his features set in a grim calmness once more. "Are you still a King's man, Ser Hobert?" Hobert nodded without hesitation. _I marched to uphold King Aegon's rights, and my cousins have died doing the same. I will not abandon the cause now, even if it had the chance of saving my life._

The four men standing before Hobert all nodded in approval at him. "Good," Lord Unwin responded with a cold smile. "It seems quite likely that the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders will wish to send their Queen a message tomorrow morn, to inform her that they have defeated all of our dragonriders, and forced our army to surrender. They will surely wish for such a victory to be known to the Queen as soon as possible." Lord Unwin smiled cruelly before continuing. "And if these upjumped peasant bastards think themselves shrewd, they will likely order us all to affix our personal seals to the letter in wax, to corroborate their claims. And that is where they will gravely error."

Lord Unwin pulled a rolled-up parchment from within a small leather pouch on his swordbelt and unfurled it. From such a distance, Hobert was unable to make out the written words with his aging eyes, but the five seals affixed at the bottom in red wax were unmistakable. Three castles for House Peake, interlocked chains for House Roxton, a large cross for House Norcross, three corn cobs for House Corne, and a three-headed dragon for House Targaryen. _Prince Daeron's seal_ , Hobert realized in astonishment. "Read it, Ser Hobert," Jon Roxton said with a grim smile, and Hobert took the letter from Lord Unwin's outstretched hand. Squinting in the dim light of the brazier, Hobert began to read the message.

_To the vile Usurper Rhaenyra,_

_Your desperate attempt to end us with the last of your bastard dragonriders has failed. They appeared in the early morning sky atop their mounts, and dealt our army grievous harm from the sky, raining fire down onto us as we slept. However, such tricks are the work of skulking bastards, and ultimately fail when tested against the mettle of trueborn men._

_The Prince Daeron, as well as the dragonriders Hugh Hammer and Ulf White, took to the sky atop their dragons and slew every last one of your dragonriders in a fierce battle among the clouds. For all their tricks, your dragonriders and their pitiful mounts could not stand against the combined might of Vermithor the Bronze Fury, Silverwing, and Tessarion._

_Though our army has taken losses, we still have more than enough men to wrest control of the city of King's Landing from your thieving hands. We are but fifty leagues away, and will soon march against you with the full might of the chivalry of the Reach and three battle-tested dragons. If you don't believe us, then you are welcome to wait in vain for the return of your dragonriders. We will deliver their heads and those of their mounts to you when we take back the rightful King's city. The mummer's farce is finished, Princess Rhaenyra, and you and yours will pay dearly for your folly. May the Seven have mercy on you all, for we will not._

Hobert's eyes were wide, and he licked his lips as a wave of anxiety washed over him. "But- but how?" was all he managed to stutter out.

Lord Unwin smiled cooly as he took the letter back from Hobert. "I believe that you are the man most well-acquainted with maester Aubrey out of all of us, Ser Hobert. It was he who found the Prince's seal on Prince Daeron as he was treating him and gave it to me. And it is him who will be present at our meeting with the usurper's dragonriders tomorrow morn, and send out any messages that are drafted. It will merely be a simple matter of attaching our own message to a raven bound for King's Landing in the stead of the one that the dragonriders dictate and have us affix our seals to."

Hobert was utterly confused. "But to do so would mean that maester Aubrey is breaking his sworn vows as a maester of the Citadel. Why would he do such a thing?"

Lord Unwin's smile was sharp as a sword's edge. "Maester Aubrey was born a Prester of Feastfires, one of the chief houses in the Westerlands sworn to House Lannister. Much and more of his kin marched from Lannisport in Lord Jason Lannister's host at the war's start, and now much and more of them lay rotting in the Riverlands. So the answer is quite simple, Ser Hobert. Maester Aubrey wants revenge."

Lord Unwin's smile was replaced with a deep scowl. "Princess Rhaenyra's avarice has led to too many needless deaths, deaths that demand vengeance. Aubrey is not the only man who has lost kin to this war. Your cousins Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon are dead because of Princess Rhaenyra's folly, Ser Hobert. And mine own son-" Lord Unwin's voice cracked, and he clenched his fist, eyes blazing with hate. "Mine own son, my _last_ son, Ser Titus, is dead because of _her_."

Taking a deep breath, Lord Peake stared firmly at Hobert. "And so, Ser Hobert, we need but one more seal affixed to this letter." The four men stared at Hobert expectantly, and Hobert began to feel beads of perspiration appear on his forehead.

"But… but Lord Unwin, what do you hope to achieve with this letter? By sending it, we will surely mark ourselves and the remnants of this army for death if our deception is discovered!" Hobert took a deep breath after speaking, and wrung his hands fretfully.

Lord Unwin sighed in annoyance. " _If_ , Ser Hobert, _If_! No matter what we do, we are dead men if the usurper Rhaenyra wins this war. You are correct, Ser Hobert. This letter will likely achieve nothing, and we will likely burn for our deception. But if we do nothing, we will still die! By sending this letter, we give the King, and _ourselves_ , a chance at changing our fortunes, no matter how slim that chance may be. The letter may do nothing, Ser Hobert, but it also may do _something_. And as our situation stands, we can currently hope for no better."

Hobert's heart was pounding in his chest. Lord Unwin's hand was outstretched, the letter clutched in his grasp. The four men before him were all waiting for Hobert to make his choice. _Lord Unwin is right. We're all dead men walking, as the situation currently stands. What will the usurper Rhaenyra do to my family if she wins this war? None can truly know what problems this letter may cause for the Queen and her Lords when she receives it. This is the King's last chance, this is House Hightower's last chance, this is OUR last chance._

Hobert took the letter from Lord Peake's hand, and retrieved Lord Ormund's seal from a leather pouch on his swordbelt. Smiling, Hobert's goodson Ser Tyler held out a small pot of red wax that he had kept warming by the brazier. Bracing the letter against a scorched trunk that had been dragged from the remains of his burned pavilion, Hobert dipped Lord Ormund's seal in the wax and pressed it to the letter, watching as the shape of a stout stone tower appeared in the rapidly-drying wax. With a shaking hand, Hobert handed the letter back to Lord Unwin. _It has begun. Seven save us all._

* * *

Despite being covered in soot and ash, the pavilion was still bright yellow beneath, and its entry flap was covered in red ants that had been sewn into the canvas in bright crimson thread. Though his pavilion had been spared destruction by dragonflame, Lord Marq Ambrose himself had been burned to death as he attempted to rally a large group of fleeing soldiers the day before. _I suppose even the Seven have their cruel japes to play_. It was in the deceased Lord Ambrose's pavilion that Hobert, Lord Peake, Ser Tyler, Jon Roxton, and Roger Corne awaited the usurper's dragonriders. Maester Aubrey was present as well, with quills, inkpots, and parchment to write with.

With a shaking hand, Hobert quaffed down another goblet of Arbor Gold. Several scorched barrels of wine were found in the ashes of the camp the night before, and Lord Unwin had ordered them dragged into Lord Ambrose's pavilion. Wine had always helped to steady Hobert's anxieties and fears, but on this morn, there was naught that could alleviate the growing terror within his heart.

"Peace, goodfather," Ser Tyler said kindly, and Hobert gave his goodson a thin smile. Hobert was a bad liar, but he would have to play along with the ruse Lord Unwin had crafted well enough so the dragonriders wouldn't expect their deception. _And if it is discovered, we will all surely burn_. At sixty years of age, Hobert was an old man, and had been fortunate to live many more years than most. The Seven had given him a long and prosperous life, and the prospect of dying did not frighten Hobert. Burning to death did terrify him, however.

Though he had seen Tessarion's flames at the battle on the Honeywine, Bitterbridge, and Tumbleton, it had always been from a great distance, and he had never truly witnessed the horrific sight of a person burning to death. However, that was before the usurper's dragonriders attacked the army the day previous. The scarce little sleep he had had the night before had been fraught with nightmares of the horrors he'd seen.

_The older he became, the more difficult it was for Hobert to sleep throughout the night before he'd need to make water. Hobert had awoken in the pre-dawn dark with a painfully full bladder, and risen from his cot, shivering in the early winter chill as he walked to his chamber pot. Afterwards, Hobert realized that he was not likely to sleep any longer, and so he began to dress himself, not wishing to wake his squire._

_The earth-shattering roar resounded across the camp as Hobert had finished shrugging on the last of his outfit for the day, a chainmail gorget around his neck. Rushing as fast as his aching legs would allow him to the entrance flap of his pavilion, Hobert flung it open and looked to the sky. Three dragons descended from the pre-dawn gloom, and the burning began moments later. One flew in the general direction of Hobert's pavilion, releasing great gouts of dark green flame from its massive black maw._

_In a panic, Hobert dropped the flap closed and stumbled back, falling painfully on his arse. Moments later, an unbearable heat filled the air around him, and to Hobert's horror, he looked up to see green flame hungrily eating the canvas walls and roof of his pavilion. Hobert's squire had awoken, blinking his eyes blearily as he staggered to his feet and looked around himself in confusion and fear._

_"RUN!" Hobert screamed at the boy, and when his bewildered squire hesitated, his tired mind still reeling from the sudden chaos, Hobert grabbed his shoulders and forced him towards the pavilion's flap. The boy ran. The roof of Hobert's pavilion was sagging dangerously low, and Hobert realized that he had mere moments before it completely collapsed in a flaming heap._

_Fear made Hobert's movement awkward and clumsy, and as he lurched towards the flap of his pavilion, he remembered a possession within that he couldn't possibly leave behind. "Vigilance!" Hobert shouted to himself, and scrambled to the desk at the center of his pavilion. He snatched the sheathed Valyrian steel sword from the tabletop, and sprinted towards the pavilion's exit with a speed he didn't realize his old body capable of. Staggering outside, Hobert was knocked flat on his face as his pavilion collapsed behind him a moment later, in a great rush of blisteringly hot air._

_Pushing himself to his knees, Hobert felt blood begin to gush down his upper lip and chin from his badly bruised nose. The air around him was so hot that he felt as though he were boiling alive. The roaring flame sucked the air from his lungs, and Hobert hacked and coughed. He somehow retained the presence of mind to buckle Vigilance to his sword belt before crawling forward, staying as low to the ground as possible, where the air wasn't as thin._

_The acrid smoke made his eyes burn, and tears leaked from his eyes, only for the intense heat to turn them to mist before they had even run halfway down his cheeks. In moments, the center of the camp had been turned into a hellscape. Hobert was horrified when he realized that the screaming around him had become nearly louder than the roar of flame._

_He saw a shrieking man writhing on the ground, covered in bright green flame. It consumed his leather jerkin, his tunic, his leather boots. His hair was alight, his skin blackening and charring. Another man was beating desperately at the flames consuming his friend with a blanket, only to scream in pain when the blanket itself was caught alight, scorching his hands. Hobert watched, speechless with horror._

_He nearly fainted from fright when a horrifically blistered and burned hand reached from beneath the burning remains of a tent to clutch frantically at his doublet. "Please," a voice rasped from beneath the smoldering fabric. "The pain… it hurts so bad. Just kill me. I beg of you."_

_Hobert recoiled in horror, wrenching free of the burned hand. "No, don't leave me!" The voice screamed. "JUST KILL ME!" Hobert crawled away, his mind spinning. Everywhere he looked, flames were burning, and men were dying. It was all too much. He curled into a ball amongst the ash and flames, and squeezed his eyes shut, continuing to choke on the acrid air._

_When the burning finally stopped, Hobert's surviving men had found him curled up in the center of the charred ash heap that had been the Hightower portion of the army's camp, with his eyes squeezed shut and hands over his ears._

Hobert was so caught up in his horrific reverie that he didn't realize how badly he had begun to shake, until he lost his grip on his goblet, and spilled Arbor Gold over his doublet. "Apologies, my Lords," he said in embarrassment. He mopped at the stain with his kerchief, and try as he might to stop it, his hand continued to tremble violently. He closed his eyes and took several deep, rasping breaths, and eventually the shaking subsided.

He opened his eyes to see the usurper's dragonriders entering the tent. Hobert sat still in his seat, and watched and waited as the seeds were offered seats around the table that Hobert and the other Lords and landed knights were seated at, accepting them with curt nods. _Stay calm, there is no way that they will be able to predict our scheme_. The sound of his heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears that Hobert feared that all the men in the room would be able to hear it.

The brown-haired dragonrider coldly introduced himself as Ser Maegor, while the red-haired dragonrider named himself as Ser Gaemon Waters. The silver-haired seed introduced himself as Ser Addam Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark. The words spoken after were but a dull murmur in Hobert's ears as he clasped his hands tightly in his lap in a white-knuckled grip. It was then that he heard the words that he had been both anticipating and dreading. "Before these discussions continue," Ser Addam Velaryon began, "the three of us must needs send a message to Queen Rhaenyra, to report on the outcome of our attack on your army."

Before he could stop himself, Hobert began to speak. "Yes, it seems that would be wise. Our maester Aubrey would be more than willing to draft and send such a message for you." The three dragonriders regarded him, and Ser Gaemon Waters nodded at Hobert in acknowledgement with a slightly arched eyebrow. From where he sat beyond the three dragonriders, Lord Unwin Peake gave Hobert a chilling glare. _If I keep babbling so, they will surely grow suspicious._

After a long moment, the three dragonriders cautiously thanked Hobert for his hospitality and turned to regard Lord Unwin as he asked a question. The moment they turned away, Hobert had to bite his lip to keep himself from bursting into nervous laughter, a horrible gibbering cackle that threatened to claw its way up his throat. _By the Seven, man, control yourself_. Hobert raised his goblet of Arbor Gold to his lips and took a deep sip, pleased that his hand only shook slightly as he did so.

Just as Lord Unwin had predicted, the three dragonriders dictated a message to the Queen, which maester Aubrey listened to attentively as he transferred it to the parchment with quill and ink. Afterwards the three seeds all took the message and read it over. _These upjumped peasants know how to read?_ Hobert was astonished.

With a nod to his fellow dragonriders, Addam Velaryon turned to address the Lords and landed knights before him. "To prove the validity of this message to the Queen and her Lords, we request that you all affix your seals to our message, my Lords." Hobert was pleased with himself when he managed to offer a calm nod in response.

He stood at the end of the line of Lords as each man dipped his seal in hot wax before pressing it to the letter. When it was Hobert's turn, he dipped his seal into the wax pot with a trembling hand, and accidentally tipped it over as he withdrew his seal. Thankfully, the letter itself was not ruined by the spilled wax. Hobert gave the men surrounding him a thin apologetic smile. "My apologies," he muttered, "I'm ashamed to say that my hands have grown less steady with my advanced age." Once again, the three dragonriders nodded at Hobert's explanation, seeming to accept his words. Hobert pressed the seal to the letter, and sat back down in his seat.

Maester Aubrey waited for the wax to dry, before rolling the message up and tying it tightly secure with twine. As Lord Unwin began to discuss what terms the dragonriders intended to give to the remaining mercenaries in the army, Hobert watched as Aubrey crossed the room to his caged ravens. As Hobert poured himself another goblet of Arbor Gold, he spared a quick furtive glance at the three dragonriders. All three were still regarding Lord Peake as the grizzled Marcher Lord spoke.

Glancing back nonchalantly in Aubrey's direction, Hobert watched as a silent and nearly imperceptible rustle of parchment occurred in the maester's sleeve. The message that the dragonriders had dictated disappeared up his sleeve, while Lord Peake's message appeared suddenly in his hand. Aubrey deftly tied the message to the raven's foot, before carrying it to the pavilion's flap and tossing it into the open air. With a rustle of black feathers, the raven flew off into the early morning sky. Hobert had to stop himself from letting out an immense sigh of relief. _The deed is done._

* * *

Since their initial day of negotiations, two more days of deliberation had passed within the deceased Lord Ambrose's pavilion. Hobert found himself surprised at just how shrewd the usurper Rhaenyra's three dragonriders were. There were little and less details that any of the three seemed to miss, and though none had been raised in a court due to their low birth, they spoke eloquently and seemed to quickly grasp many topics of discussion without too much difficulty. _It is fortunate that Lord Peake's scheme was so well-planned, for they would have likely caught us had we made even a single mistake_.

At the end of the first day's deliberations, Ser Addam Velaryon had requested that any prisoners held by the army be turned over. Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and Ser Tomard Flowers had been released from Tumbleton castle's dungeon that evening, and had joined the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders during the next two days of deliberation. _Their wrath is considerable_. The Alans and the Bastard of Bitterbridge had been of the opinion that Hobert and the remaining Lords and landed knights of the army should have been executed immediately for their treason 'and other crimes', but the dragonriders had expressed hesitation, stating that they wished for them all to face the Queen's judgement.

And so the deliberations continued for two more days, while maester Aubrey informed Hobert and the other Lords and landed knights that no correspondence from King's Landing had arrived. The dragonriders wished to force the army to stand down and make the surviving Lords and landed knights return to their seats to await the Queen's summons for judgement. However, Hobert and the others continued to insist that they could agree to no terms until their leader, Prince Daeron, was well enough to join such deliberations and agree to their terms.

On the evening after the third day of deliberation, Hobert sat alone at the edge of his cot, his head clutched in his hands. _My nightmares have only grown worse_. It wasn't only the attack of the usurper's dragonriders that haunted his dreams anymore, however. Visions of Bitterbridge burning and Lady Caswell flinging herself from her castle's battlements to hang now haunted his fitful sleep. Tumbleton's burned and butchered townsfolk waited for him in his dreams as well.

Wine didn't help, nor small amounts of milk of the poppy provided by maester Aubrey. The faces of the slain seemed to always be waiting for him when he closed his eyes, grotesque and twisted, staring at Hobert with accusatory eyes, glassy and unfocused in death.

" _Murderer," they whispered, a terrible rasping chatter uttered from hundreds of burned and bloated lips. Hobert shook his head in denial, trembling with fear._

" _You're mistaken!" Hobert pleaded, as they shuffled closer and closer, surrounding him. "I didn't give the orders!" he cried out to Lady Caswell and the people of Bitterbridge. Unmoved by his pleas, they shuffled closer. Hobert fell to his knees, raising his hands before him in a plaintive gesture of supplication._

" _I tried to stop them! I did everything I could!" Hobert screamed at Lord Footly and the townsfolk of Tumbleton. Staring at him with glassy eyes, they continued forward, drawing ever closer._

_As a multitude of charred and rotting hands began to reach towards Hobert, he began to weep. "Mercy!" Hobert cried, cowering in terror._

_The hands stopped reaching towards him for a moment, and Hobert felt a glimmer of hope as they all hesitated. Then, in unison, the dead spoke. "No." Their hands reached out and grabbed hold of Hobert._

It was at that time that Hobert woke, shrieking in terror and shaking uncontrollably. Hobert considered himself a pious man, and had always assumed he had lived his life in a way that would please the Seven and save him from an eternity in the Seven Hells. But after his time spent marching with Lord Ormund's army, he wasn't nearly as sure. _I was too much of a coward to speak out against what I knew was wrong. Though I did not slay them, my hands are stained with the blood of innocents._

Was there a way for him to find redemption for such grave crimes? Hobert wanted to believe there was. The alternative was too horrible to consider. Surely the sixty years of life that he'd lived were enough to wash away the evils that he'd abetted whilst marching with Lord Ormund's army?

The fear within himself remained, but Hobert also felt a glimmer of newfound resolve. _I won't fail again. If I find myself standing at the precipice of an atrocity again, I will not falter_.

"Ser Hobert?" a voice called, and Hobert recognized it as maester Aubrey's.

"What is it, maester?" Hobert called back. The maester entered his tent, and Hobert was worried to see the grave expression on the maester's face.

"It's Prince Daeron, Ser Hobert," the maester began. "His condition has grown much worse throughout the day. As his nearest remaining kin, I thought you should know that he will not linger for much longer."

Hobert felt his mouth grow dry. "May I… may I see him now, maester?" he asked. _The lad is dying. He should not die alone_.

Maester Aubrey nodded gravely. "Of course, Ser Hobert. However, he has been given copious amounts of milk of the poppy to ease his pain. I do not know if he will be at all aware of his surroundings."

Hobert nodded. "It matters not, maester. I'm the only kin of his left in this army. I should be with him."

* * *

The pavilion was dark, with only the dim light of a single brazier to keep the blackness of night at bay. As Hobert entered, the Prince Daeron Targaryen was shrouded in shadow from where he lay atop his cot. Hobert found a stool in the center of the pavilion and carried it over to the side of the cot, sitting beside the Prince.

Hobert had never seen so many bandages on a single person before. _Even Tom Flowers wore less after the Honeywine_. During his fight atop Tessarion over the camp, the Prince Daeron had fought Ser Addam Velaryon atop his own Seasmoke. From what scattered stories Hobert had heard, the fight had been a close thing, but was ended when Seasmoke caught Tessarion's face in a direct blast of flame, blinding and mortally wounding the Blue Queen. The Prince had had the misfortune to be partially caught in the same blast of flame, and was gravely wounded.

Despite maester Aubrey's best efforts, the Prince's burn wounds had been too severe, and infection had set in quickly. The stench wafting from the Prince's bandages was enough to make Hobert feel sick to his stomach, but he did his best to ignore the nausea as the Prince began to stir. _"Between the fever and the milk of the poppy, it is unlikely that the Prince will even recognize you,"_ maester Aubrey had told Hobert.

Hobert was therefore surprised when the Prince turned his heavily-bandaged face to regard him, and whispered "Ser Hobert?"

Hobert quickly nodded. "Yes, my Prince."

The Prince nodded slightly in acknowledgement, which was difficult to do because of the bandages wrapped about his face. Only one bloodshot purple eye was visible beneath all of the bandages, staring at Hobert.

The Prince continued to speak, his voice a ragged whisper. "I feel very odd, Ser Hobert, and I seem to be unable to stand. Will you help me?"

Hobert felt dismay, but shook his head. "I'm afraid that I cannot, my Prince. You are in a very grave condition."

The Prince huffed in annoyance. "But Ser Hobert, I must! As Lord Ormund's squire, I must attend to him!" Hobert looked at the Prince in shock for a moment, before the realization set in. _He recognizes me, but is unaware of where he is_.

"It is alright, my Prince," Hobert said quietly. "Lord Ormund wishes for you to recover as quickly as possible, so you must needs get your rest."

The Prince nodded slightly, and was beset with a sudden fit of hacking coughs. Hobert could only watch in dismay, and hope that they subsided quickly.

When the coughing finally stopped, Prince Daeron turned to regard Hobert again with his single uncovered eye. "Where is Tessarion, Ser Hobert? It is hard to describe, but I have such a queer feeling that something terrible has befallen her. I couldn't bear it if something has happened to her!" His purple eye looked plaintively at Hobert, bright with fever. Tears welled within it, and began to run down his cheek, running into the tightly wrapped bandages below.

Hobert took the Prince's bandaged hand in a light grasp, so as not to cause him any pain. He wanted to weep, but instead he smiled kindly. _Stay strong, Hobert. He is not long for this world. Don't cause him grief in his last moments_. "Tessarion is alright, my Prince. She is waiting patiently for you to recover along with the rest of us."

The Prince sighed in relief. "That is wonderful to hear, Ser Hobert. I should like to go flying on her as soon as I am able."

Hobert smiled and nodded. "As you wish, my Prince. If I may, I would suggest that you try flying along the Honeywine River. The countryside is beautiful at this time, and I'm sure it will look even better from dragonback."

Hobert noticed that Prince Daeron smiled widely, though most of his mouth was concealed beneath the bandages. "That sounds wonderful, Ser Hobert. Thank you, truly." The Prince's head suddenly fell back against his pillow, and his breathing became so faint that Hobert could barely hear it. Still smiling, the Prince closed his eye. "How very wonderful." the Prince whispered contentedly, and then he breathed his last.

When the Old King died, the Realm wept in mourning from the frigid Wall to the streets of Oldtown. When Prince Daeron Targaryen drew his last breath, he had naught but the tears of one old man to mourn his passing.

* * *

The three dragonriders climbed onto their mounts, and each chained himself and a single passenger in with them atop their dragon. Ser Tomard Flowers sat with Ser Maegor atop his Grey Ghost, Lord Alan Tarly with Ser Gaemon Waters atop the Cannibal, and Ser Alan Beesbury with Ser Addam Velaryon atop Seasmoke.

From what Hobert had learned, Ser Gaemon Waters had retrieved _Heartsbane_ from Hugh Hammer's corpse when he investigated the area around Vermithor's corpse to ensure that both dragon and rider were dead. When he learned that it was the ancestral Valyrian steel weapon of House Tarly, Ser Gaemon had returned it to Lord Alan when the man was freed from Tumbleton castle's dungeon. _Heartsbane_ now sat in a scabbard across Lord Alan Tarly's back.

Ser Maegor had flown back to where he had killed Ulf the White, and confirmed that Silverwing was alive, but very much unable to fly, at least currently. _That would complicate Jon Roxton's ambitions to tame her and fly her into battle_ , Hobert thought grimly.

Once all the dragonriders had secured themselves and their passengers atop their dragons with their saddle chains, Ser Gaemon Waters turned to face Hobert and the other assembled Lords and landed knights before them and began to speak. "With the death of Prince Daeron, the terms we negotiated no longer need his approval. You all will disperse this army and return to your seats, to await summons for the Queen's judgement. If you refuse to do so, we will return with Fire and Blood. Make no mistake, my Lords. Amnesty will not be offered a second time."

With that, the three dragons took flight, beating their wings powerfully as they climbed into the air above the ruins of Tumbleton. The massive black dragon let out a powerful roar that was quickly echoed by the two dragons surrounding it. The three dragons then turned and flew northeast, in the direction of King's Landing.

Hobert watched them go with considerable trepidation. Around Hobert, Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne watched them disappear into the distance. Lord Richard Rodden had come as well, though he lay on a litter on the hillside alongside the others. Turning to Lord Unwin, Roger Corne cleared his throat and spoke. "What now, Lord Peake?"

Lord Peake turned to regard the Lords and knights standing about him. "We will not disperse the army. If our deception is discovered and they return to burn us, it is better that we burn here, rather than bringing down dragonflame on all of our seats." Lord Unwin sighed. "Beyond that, we wait. We will learn what all of our fates are to be soon enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hobert Hightower is alive, and only time will tell what his ultimate fate will be from here on out. With all paths to success seemingly closed to them, the surviving Greens of the Hightower army seek to make a new one of their own. As always, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated as the story continues!


	24. The Riot

**Baela**

_Baela hadn't realized that she had fallen asleep until she smelled the Pentoshi incense. Opening her eyes, she found herself lying on a bed covered in elaborately decorated cushions. A slight breeze was blowing through an alcove that opened into a view of the harbor below. Standing, Baela hesitantly approached the aperture, appreciating the slight smell of the sea that accompanied the wind. She assumed from the view that she was staying in one of the manses that dotted the hills around Pentos. She watched a ship with a mermaid on its prow chart a course out of the harbor towards the setting sun. The waves that rippled in its wake reflected the reds and oranges of the sunset, more dancing flame than water._

_The whisper of a dress behind her caught her attention. Turning, she found herself face to face with a beautiful woman whose sea-green eyes matched the silk of her dress. A great mane of silver-gold ringlets ran down her back past her waist. Baela's breath caught in her throat. Her earliest memories came to the fore as she sprang forward, wrapping the woman in a tight embrace. Her mother's hair smelled of the same Pentoshi incense that burned on the bedside table, as well as something else besides. Baela breathed deeply a second time, smiling as she identified the mystery scent. All about her lingered the sulfurous smell of dragons._

_Her mother returned her embrace for several moments, before pulling away, taking a moment to look her over._

_"Baela, dearest, you've become a woman grown whilst I've been away." Her mother said with a twinge of sadness in her voice. " I do not have long. I must needs speak with you quickly."_

_Tears flowed unbidden down Baela's cheeks. Looking into her mother's eyes, the loss of the past several days rushed back into the fore of her mind. "But mother, I have already lost so much. Stay with me, please."_

_Laena Velaryon took her hands between her own, tears welling within her own eyes. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Baela my love, the war is near its end. The dragons have danced, and the dragons have died. Your father's family has brought itself and Westeros to its knees." She gripped Baela's hands tightly. "I need both you and Rhaena to be strong. You are amongst the last of the dragons. The fire is dying, and the two of you will have to keep the embers alight."_

_"Mother, how can I be strong when I only fail those I love? In the span of a year, I've lost grandmother, Lucerys, Jacaerys, and Gaemon. The Queen has forbidden me from flying to war. When the Usurper's forces reach the city, I won't even be able to reach Moondancer. I can't even die properly, as grandmother Rhaenys did, dragonwhip in hand."_

_"Baela, fate has conspired to place you within a time and place of great import." Her mother pursed her lips. "My time with you draws to a close. Be strong."_

_Behind her mother, a lacquered door swung open. Baela was shocked to see her father standing in the precipice. Unlike her mother, he was dressed for battle, his silver hair flowing over the black plate he wore the day he departed. Beckoning to her mother, he gave Baela a wan smile. Laena planted a warm kiss on Baela's brow before taking her father's hand and allowing herself to be led from the chamber._

_As he closed the door, her father spoke. "Give my love to your brothers and your sisters, my princess. I fear we may not speak again for some time." With one last smile, her parents closed the door behind them. Baela immediately ran to the doors, struggling to pull them open, begging for her parents to return._

_"Please, don't leave me!" She cried, banging on the doors whilst hot tears flowed. She struck the doors until her hands were raw and aching, but to no avail. Even when she stopped striking them, the dull thud continued. Eventually, she realized that the sound was coming from outside the confines of her dream._

* * *

Opening her eyes, she rose groggily from her bed, clutching a blanket around her disheveled clothing for warmth. Whilst it was impossible to tell the time from this deep within the Red Keep, she calculated that it must be very late, as the stones of the floor were cold and the coals within the brazier had cooled, with only a few continuing to glow. She grasped at the lacquered handle to open the door, pulling it inwards and revealing Ser Lorent Marbrand standing in the hall.

"I am terribly aggrieved to disturb your rest, my Lady, but the Queen has asked that you attend her in the Queen's ballroom. With the Red Keep's garrison as depleted as it is, the Queen wishes to ensure the safety of all who remain."

Baela stared numbly, before nodding in acquiescence. She had not attended the Queen since the news had arrived from Tumbleton two days prior. When the court had received word of the Green's stunning victory, everything had changed. _The war was over that day. We all simply lacked the strength to admit it._ Her Grandfather had been devastated, weeping openly for the loss of his grandson and heir. Baela had simply felt empty inside. _First Jace and now Gaemon._ Every time the Queen dispatched those in her service, Baela lost someone dear to her. Her mother's words troubled her. _How am I to be strong for anyone else? I can barely muster the desire to wake in the mornings._

She allowed herself to be led through the passages of Maegor's Holdfast quietly. Ser Lorent maintained a respectful distance, remaining quiet as they walked. When they reached the double doors to the Ballroom, he drew them open, announcing her presence to the Queen, who sat disheveled in a silken night gown at her customary seat.

Rhaenyra's bloodshot purple eyes regarded her from across the hall as she approached. Her cousin appeared to have been in the midst of finishing a tray of lemon cakes, judging by the half-eaten platter in front of her.

"Baela, _so good_ of you to join us. It appears that even the smallfolk of the city have conspired to support the Usurper. As we speak, they throw themselves against the gates, hoping to force them open for the Hightowers and their lackeys. While you _slept_ , I was forced to dispatch the rest of the castle garrison and nearly all of my remaining knights to cut them to ribbons and restore order."

The Princes Aegon and Viserys sat to their mother's left, looking both fearful and exhausted. Terrax, the flame colored hatchling of Viserys, was busy tearing into a cold leg of chicken. To the Queen's right sat Prince Joffrey. When she made eye contact with him, she was shocked at how much rage boiled behind his normally warm brown eyes. _Joffrey likely wished to ride with the Queen's knights._ Her grandfather paced behind the high table, and the Queen's ladies-in-waiting sat throughout the chamber, some whispering whilst others wept. The seven Knights of Rhaenyra's Queensguard stood at attention along the walls, the silvered mirrors reflecting their white cloaks.

Baela drew in a ragged breath before responding. "I have come to support you during this trying time, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra laughed coldly. "Is that so? I was certain that if I didn't send Ser Marbrand to fetch you that you would have already attempted to escape your confinement. I wouldn't have been shocked if you harbored illusions of dispersing these traitors from atop your dragon."

Baela clenched her fist, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her palms. "I gave you my word, Your Grace. I swore to obey your commands."

"The people of this city swore to obey me as well. They prostrated themselves in the streets when I arrived, thanking me for freeing them from the depredations of my accursed _half-brother_. For nearly half a year I have protected their worthless lives, sending my dragonriders forth to strike down those who menaced them. They repaid my sacrifices by killing Ser Luthor and his goldcloaks earlier today, and now they've decided their rags look better in Green. I ought to burn them all to a crisp. Aegon won't enjoy this city nearly as much if all of the traitors, whores and lickspittles have been reduced to ash."

Joffrey slammed his fist on the table, causing his mother to jump with fright. "Seven Hells mother! Why did you forbid me from speaking with them? I could have assured them that I could defend them from the likes of Prince Daeron or the two betrayers from atop Tyraxes. Instead, they are attempting to flee for their lives whilst they still have them. When you barred the gates it only confirmed the rumors spread by the Hightowers' men in the city below!"

"My _sweet boy_ , these animals are undeserving of your diplomacy. They'd have been far more likely to have loosed an arrow at you than accepted your oaths of protection. Besides, I need you here, by my side. You are my pillar of strength in these trying times."

Joffrey wrenched himself out of his mother's desperate embrace, standing and joining Baela where she stood in front of the high table. He clutched his sword in its scabbard with one hand while turning the ivory cyvasse King piece in his other hand over and over.

Pulling Baela to the side of the hall, he turned his back on his mother, who was watching them both intently. His brown eyes locked with hers. "My mother is not herself. Ever since the news of Tumbleton she has spent the last few days weeping constantly and jumping at shadows. She will not allow me to fight, even for her own crown. You and I remain the only dragonriders in the city. We must needs _do something_. Our enemies were only fifty leagues away days ago. We must get to the Dragonpit. Otherwise the city will be lost, and with it, my mother's cause."

Baela sighed. She was so tired. Tired of fighting, and tired of loss. She was about to respond in the negative when shouts echoed outside of the ballroom doors. The clanging of live steel and the screams of a dying man erupted. The knights of the Queensguard drew their blades, looking confusedly at one another before taking positions in a semicircle around the entrance. The noncombatants throughout the chamber screamed and rushed to the rear, while the Queen stood, gazing with a terrified fixation on the chamber doors. After a heartbeat or so of silence, the doors burst inwards, revealing a column of screaming goldcloaks surging inwards. Ser Lorent and the other members of the Queensguard met them in combat near the entrance, cutting them down seemingly with little effort. For a few moments, the enemy seemed powerless against them. Then the tide began to turn.

First to fall was Ser Lyonel Bentley, who was grabbed by two men and forced against the wall whilst a third pushed a dagger into his eye as he screamed. Ser Harold Darke slipped on the entrails of a man he had just cut open, falling forwards onto the cold stone. His accident cost him his life when three more goldcloaks drove their spears through his back. They plunged them in again and again, turning the once brilliant white a dark crimson. Ser Adrian Redfort held several men at bay until an arrow sprouted from his neck, shot by an archer whose gambeson sported a black swan. Ser Loreth Lansdale and Ser Glendon Goode died soon after, falling victim to the spears of their many opponents. As his brothers fell around him, Ser Lorent's footwork and speed improved. He spun throughout the chamber like a dancer, cutting through his enemies and sending arcs of blood sailing through the air only to splatter in grotesque patterns on the silvered mirrors. Running a particularly large goldcloak through, he forced his dying opponent to his knees, planting his foot against the man's chest to withdraw his blade. As he wrenched it free, a knight wearing a black-and-white doublet entered the chamber. Ser Lorent, breathing heavily, turned to engage him, and for a few moments they danced about one another, their steel screeching as they traded blows. Their duel ended when a goldcloak put his spear through Marbrand's calf. The Lord Commander fell to one knee, cringing in pain. He reached for the dagger hanging at his side, but the knight in black-and-white dealt him a savage blow across the neck before he could use it, nearly cutting his head from his shoulders.

As the enemy knight turned to face the Queen, Prince Joffrey turned to Baela. Despite her shock, she felt him press her cyvasse piece into her hands. A cold chill ran down her spine.

"Joffrey, _don't._ "

His eyes, so much like those of his brothers, no longer were filled with rage. Instead, they flickered with resolve. He closed her hands around the piece.

"I promised you when the time came that I would be ready Baela. I am ready now."

As he turned, she grabbed his shoulder to stop him, but he pulled free, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. The sound of it exciting its scabbard drew the attention of the men in the room, and the knight in black-and-white turned to face the Prince.

Joffrey raised his blade, pointing it at his opponent. The knight rose his blade in a salute, before returning to his fighting stance. Baela glanced at the Queen, whose eyes were glassy and unfocused. Her hands gripped the table in front of her with white knuckles.

Joffrey attacked, swinging his longsword in a savage downward cut. Quick as lightning, the knight brought his blade upwards, knocking the Prince's strike aside. With his free hand, the knight drove a dagger hidden within the folds of his cloak deep into Joffrey's chest. The Prince of Dragonstone staggered, inhaling sharply, before his blade slipped from his fingers to clatter on the ballroom floor. Collapsing, he began to choke and sputter, his blood pooling beneath him, flowing outward. _Like the wings of a dragon_.

Rhaenyra screamed a hideous, animalistic sound of agony. Baela felt lightheaded. She staggered backwards, the cyvasse piece falling from her grasp. Pulling a knife from a half-eaten lamprey pie, she ran at the knight standing over Joffrey's body, screaming in pure hatred. The knight turned to face her, his eyes cold as he swung a gauntleted fist. Stars danced as the void took her.

* * *

**Gyles**

_Where in the Seven Hells did they all go?_ Unlike the River Gate and the King's Gate, the Lion Gate had not been forced open. "Someone opened the bloody thing!" exclaimed Ser Harmon of the Reeds, a huge and hulking hedge knight wearing mottled and dented iron plate. What disturbed Gyles the most, however, was the lack of corpses, but for a single gold-cloaked corpse that dangled from a noose above the gate. _There wasn't even a fight. The lion gate garrison has simply up and vanished into the night._

"Utter cowardice!" Ser Medrick Manderly seethed. The northern knight had been tasked by Queen Rhaenyra with securing the seven gates of King's Landing, entrusting him with nearly every knight and man-at-arms she had left in the Red Keep to do so. After Ser Luthor Largent's disastrous expedition into the city earlier that day, in which he and nearly the entire Gold Cloak garrison stationed within the Red Keep had been killed, none of the remaining Gold Cloaks could be spared from their posts to help in this task.

 _Most are likely dead by now,_ Gyles thought grimly. The garrison of the King's Gate had tried to hold out against the mob, but with no defences on the inner wall, they were quickly overrun and butchered. By the time the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms had reached the King's Gate, it was an utter ruin. The smallfolk who had attacked the gate had long since fled into the countryside beyond, leaving naught behind but a gate that had been chopped to kindling and the bloody trampled corpses of the Gold Cloaks they'd killed.

"Who is that man?" Ser Medrick called, nodding in the direction of the Gold-cloaked corpse hanging from the noose. "Thatn's Ser Benwyck Thistle, Ser," a voice called out. "He was Cap'n of the Lion Gate."

Ser Medrick grimaced, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a gauntleted finger. "Treason after treason," he grunted. The Lion gate garrison was not the only group of Gold Cloaks to foreswear their oaths. The River Gate's garrison, known as the Mudfoots, had risen up with the rioters, executing their Captain and opening their gate to the mob.

Fighting them and the seemingly endless tide of enraged merchants, sailors, and other rioters had been costly. With the men they'd lost in the fighting, as well as the small amounts of men that they'd left behind to hold each gate the armored column had secured, Ser Medrick had scarcely more than half the men left that he had departed the Red Keep with.

Ser Medrick quickly set about leaving a small force to hold the Lion Gate, ordering the selected men to close the gate and cut down Captain Benwyck Thistle's corpse. Raising his sword, Ser Medrick pointed it northeast, further along the city's wall. "Onwards!" he shouted, and a man-at-arms raised a brass war trumpet to his lips and blew a brazen call. In response, the mounted men-at-arms and knights of the party closed ranks and rode further along the interior of the wall.

Gyles rode near the head of the column, along with his squire Mors. Since the brutal melee at the River Gate, the movement of the column had been surprisingly unimpeded. It seemed as though the gate garrisons that had not betrayed the Queen's cause had been quickly overrun by the large amounts of smallfolk rabble that wished to escape the city. Many of such groups of rioters had already done their bloody work, however, and those that remained in the city were more interested in looting, raping, and murdering than escaping the Hightower army's wrath.

The outer edges of the city nearest the walls were abandoned, with naught but the charred husks of burned buildings and corpses to greet the column as it rode onwards. Further within the city, however, utter chaos reigned supreme, with faint traces of the sounds of mayhem carried to the ears of the knights and men-at-arms on the cold night breeze.

Gyles wondered when the Green army would arrive from Tumbleton. Rumors of the dire letter that they had sent to Queen Rhaenyra had spread quickly from the Red Keep into the city beyond. Before the riots had broken out, Gyles had hoped that the city would be able to hold out against the Prince Daeron and the traitorous Dragonseeds until the Northmen and Rivermen could arrive to support Queen Rhaenyra. _They surely wouldn't burn the city that they wish to return to the usurper Aegon_.

Upon seeing the condition of several of the city's gates, however, Gyles began to realize just how untenable their situation was. _With the exception of the Lion Gate, there are no gates to even defend anymore, just shattered and splintered ruins_. Thinking about what was to come would do no good in the present, however. Steeling his nerves, he rode on.

Gyles began to feel a sinking sensation in his stomach long before the column had reached the Gate of the Gods. The evidence of a recent brutal fight was everywhere, judging by the large amounts of bloody corpses strewn about the street. _But who was fighting who?_ He didn't see any hint of gold amongst the raiments of the slain, nor three-headed dragon or any other sigil. _Only dead commoners, by the look of them all. But why were they fighting each other?_

Gyles' question was quickly forgotten as the column reached the Gate of the Gods. The gate showed evidence of an unsuccessful defence, with the corpses of its Gold Cloak garrison strewn about the inner wall's entryway to the gate. What confused Gyles, however, was what waited just beyond the Gate of the Gods, further along the inner wall of the city.

It was a large hastily-assembled palisade, that looked to be made of every type of wooden object that men had ever crafted. Bedframes, wagon wheels, tables, ladders, broken spear shafts; all were piled together in a bristling hedge that stood nearly ten feet above the cobbled stones of the street. Atop it were a multitude of grimy men clutching torches. Some wore the boiled leathers and mail of sellswords, a few bore the grimy and heavily-scarred plate of robber knights, and most wore naught but cloaks and other cheap, frayed articles of clothing. All however were covered in bloodstains and scowled darkly at the multitude of knights arrayed before their barricade.

Ser Medrick urged his warhorse forward slightly, tapping its flanks with his spurs when the beast shied away from the jagged and splintered shafts of wood sticking out haphazardly from the barricade. Lifting his visor, the heir to White Harbor's voice rang out into the night. "Who goes there, he who dares to impede knights about the Queen's business!?" For several moments there was no response, until one of the robber knights atop the barricade made a quick motion with his hand. A gangling boy in boiled leathers standing next to the knight handed off his torch, his closely-cropped silvery hair glinting in its flickering light. Turning to the knight, he removed his helmet and stepped back to the side.

Resting his gauntleted hands on the edge of a bedframe that adorned the barricade's top, the now-helmetless knight leaned forward and began to speak. "Ser Perkin the Flea, _most honorable Ser_ ," the man replied in a mocking tone. He had a large hooked nose that reminded Gyles of a hawk's beak, small beady eyes the color of flint chips, and a sharp widow's peak that receded far back into his scalp. "And me and mine are about the _King's_ business."

At those treasonous words, Ser Medrick Manderly hefted his blade, an action that was quickly mimicked by the knights and men-at-arms around Gyles. Gyles however, eased his goldenheart recurve bow from its holder attached to Evenfall's saddle. With his other hand, he drew an arrow from a quiver attached securely to his hip, nocking it.

Ser Perkin merely laughed at the threatening show of force below him. "Wave that sword o' yours all ya like, it won't make a bit o' difference. Ya can't go forward, and ya can't go back." _Can't go back?_ Gyles was confused, twisting in his saddle to look behind himself. Beyond the rear edge of the column, a massive crowd was approaching, many of them hefting spears that had most likely been yanked from the grasp of dead gold cloaks. _The bodies in the street,_ Gyles realized with horror. _They weren't dead, but merely waiting for us to pass by so they could spring their trap_.

Gyles quickly looked left towards the Gate of the Gods, hoping that it would prove a viable means of escape, but was disappointed when he saw that it was closed, with the steps up to the gatehouse barricaded with the same detritus that Ser Perkin the Flea and his men stood atop. Looking to the right, Gyles was disheartened to see that the street leading from the Gate of the Gods up to Cobbler's Square was blocked by the remains of a charred building that had collapsed into it, with extra debris piled on top.

 _We could continue on foot, but not on horseback. To try to escape on foot would be certain death, however. The rabble would swarm us and tear us to pieces before we made it even halfway to Cobbler's Square._ The knights and men-at-arms of the column around Gyles sat tense in their saddles, clutching their weapons. Many men had joined Ser Perkin atop the barricade, clutching bows, crossbows, slings, and rocks. Sneering, Ser Perkin opened his arms wide. "You all need not die here today. Lay down your arms and surrender, and King Aegon may show you all mercy yet, despite your treason."

After hatefully glaring at Ser Perkin, Ser Medrick turned to address the column. "Tighten ranks, men! Prepare yourselves!" The column drew inwards, closing its ranks until it was a formidable ring of mounted warriors in mail and plate. As the men of the column finished maneuvering themselves and their mounts into a more defensible formation, they began to notice a cacophony of noise drawing nearer and nearer.

A mob was approaching the Gate of the Gods from Cobbler's Square, a roiling mass of shouting and jeering smallfolk, seemingly displaying none of the limited discipline of the grimy army of Ser Perkin the Flea. Gyles quickly glanced at Ser Perkin atop the barricade, and was surprised to see a dark scowl on the man's face. _Mayhaps he did not expect the arrival of this mob either_.

Climbing over the rubble pile impeding their progress, the newcomers drew up short, eyeing not only the mounted column warily, but the men who surrounded them as well. A burly man made his way to the head of the mob, and it seemed clear to Gyles that he was their leader. He wore simple clothing that had become torn and stained, as well as a crudely-made heavy leather apron. He bore a bloody and dented breastplate that had been haphazardly strapped on over his clothing, and Gyles noticed that the breastplate was embossed with a red crab.

In one stained hand, the man held a longsword. In the other, he clutched a tall wooden staff. At the staff's top was a severed head, and not far below, tied tightly to the staff with twine… Gyles felt sick to his stomach. _If I'm to die tonight, I hope that my member doesn't join the one already tied to that man's staff_.

With a murderous grin, the man in the stolen breastplate laughed boisterously and called out to the men arrayed before him. "Seven blessings, friends!" he shouted mockingly. "I fear that you lot are in our way!" Pointing his sword in the direction of the Gate of the Gods, the man continued to speak. "We ain't going to wait on no dragons to burn us all to a crisp." Hefting the staff, the man nodded at the severed head. "But we thought that some debts needed paying before we quit the city." As a deep growling cackle began to emanate from the crowd behind him, the man shook the staff in his grasp. "Tis only fair that the highborn pay their share o' taxes. Lord Celtigar already paid his part o' the _cock tax_." Sneering at the multitude of knights before him, the burly peasant continued. "Methinks it's time for you lot to pay your share as well."

It was then that Ser Perkin spoke up, anger evident in his voice and features. "Ya have no business with us." Motioning at the men standing around him, Ser Perkin continued to speak. "We're men o' King Aegon, here to protect his city and put down traitors." He glared at the mob. "Me and mine won't hesitate to kill ya if ya try anything. Disperse now, and I'll forget I ever saw any of ya."

The peasant in the bloody breastplate laughed heartily. "Kill me, will you?" he began. "You can bloody well try." The mob around him began to jeer, with a few individuals beginning to throw stones and other debris indiscriminately, pelting both the men of the mounted column and Perkin the Flea and his men. Though they made no overt movement forward, it looked to Gyles as though the mob's numbers were only growing. _Seven Hells_.

Perkin the Flea turned back to regard the knights and men-at-arms of the mounted column. "Surrender and submit yourself to the rightful King's mercy. There needn't be any more blood spilled." Beneath his visor, Gyles scoffed. _Does he take us for utter fools? I'd sooner surrender to a pack of wolves than this robber knight and his army of cutthroats._

Gyles was pleased to see that Ser Medrick Manderly seemed to share his sentiments. Red-faced, the northern knight shouted at Perkin the Flea. "I won't suffer to hear one more word pass between your traitorous lips! We are knights and leal soldiers of the Queen, and you are sorely mistaken if you believe that we will forsake our vows to her and hand ourselves over to the mercy of a traitorous cutthroat and his army of _gutter rats._ "

The jeering of the mob resounded off the stones of the street and city walls, ringing within Gyles' helm. Horses whickered, and the light of torches threw long twisted shadows in every direction. Heart pounding, Gyles drew back an arrow with his recurve bow, aiming it at Perkin the Flea atop the barricade. _You heard Ser Manderly, traitor. Not one more word._

Ser Perkin leaned forward over the barricade, face contorted with rage. "You highborns are all the same! I-" The robber knight's next words turned into a strangled gurgle as Gyles shot an arrow cleanly through his throat. Jerking backwards, Perkin the Flea clawed at his throat as he coughed and spluttered, blood frothing at his lips and running down his chin. He fell backwards, disappearing from view. For a single moment, all was still. The men of the column sat tense atop their horses, and several of them gave Gyles incredulous looks. The jeers of the crowd died down, and Ser Perkin's men stood atop the barricade and behind the column, shocked by the sudden death of their leader.

In the next moment, all hell broke loose. The mob surged forward with a feral shriek, and Perkin the Flea's gutter army attacked, firing arrows and bolts from atop the barricade, and attacking with spears, cudgels, chipped swords, and rusty dirks at the column's rear. Instinct and training took over, and Gyles began shooting arrows as fast as he could. For every grimy assailant that collapsed with an arrow through their heart, two more scrabbled forward, faces twisted into murderous snarls.

The knights and men-at-arms of the column maintained formation, and savagely hacked at any who dared step in range. Gyles desperately hoped that they might seize the advantage, despite the vast disparity in numbers between the Queen's men and their enemies. Gyles grimaced as he began to see knights and men-at-arms at the column's periphery pulled from their saddles and disappear into a maelstrom of roaring smallfolk.

As the column lost more and more of its defensive cohesion, Gyles slipped his recurve bow back into its holder on his saddle and drew his sword, slinging his round shield around from his back to his arm. A peasant grabbed at Evenfall's bridle, screaming curses at Gyles. His venomous curses turned into pitiful wails as Gyles savagely hacked the man's hand off at the wrist, before slicing his face open with a quick backhand slash. The man collapsed and was trampled beneath Evenfall's hooves as Gyles rode forward.

Gyles watched as a laughing knight in heavy iron plate with a bear pelt tied about his shoulders plunged into the heart of the mob, riding straight for its leader, who was still clutching the pole adorned with pieces of Lord Celtigar. Each mounted knight and man-at-arms was becoming an island all to himself as more and more screaming smallfolk rushed forward, attempting to surround the riders and pull them from their mounts.

Mors fought his way towards Gyles, his eyes wide beneath his halfhelm. "Ser, we must needs retreat!" Pockets of knights desperately fought their way forward, trying to reach small nearby alleys and wynds. _I won't falter_. Gyles turned to Mors. "We can't afford to flee now, Mors! We have to stand our ground!" _I am no craven. We can win the day yet_. Gyles spurred Evenfall forward, bowling over several shouting peasants in ragged and bloody clothing. He swung his sword again and again, striking down attacker after attacker.

 _Where are they all coming from? Have they no fear?_ A small crowd of smallfolk had clambered up the gatehouse steps over the debris that had been strewn across them, and were battering at the door that contained the gate's winch. Though he scarcely had a moment to truly observe his surroundings, Gyles was dismayed to see less and less mounted knights and men-at-arms around him. Medrick Manderly, the column's leader, was nowhere to be seen. Cohesion had been utterly lost, and noble knights and lowly smallfolk alike died bloody deaths under an unending hail of arrows, bolts, and rocks being fired from the men atop the makeshift barricade.

"KILL THAT FUCKING DORNISHMAN!" a voice screamed, and Gyles was set upon by a small crowd of enraged rioters. He struck one with his sword as they grabbed at Evenfall's bridle, and another as they tried to grab hold of his shield arm. However, twisting in his saddle to attack robbed Gyles of his balance, and he felt terror clench at his heart as several sets of hands clutched at his right foot and dragged it from its stirrup.

In desperation, Gyles clenched his thighs as tightly as he could about his saddle, but it was no use. _No, No, NO!_ Gyles thought in panic. _They'll tear me to pieces if I'm pulled from the saddle!_ Just as Gyles thought that his fate was sealed, the hands released their grip on him. He desperately scrabbled fully back atop Evenfall, and turned to see his savior cutting down the last of his assailants. "Mors!" Gyles shouted hoarsely, elation filling his heart.

The grizzled squire was tense in his saddle, a grave expression stretched across his features. "Now, Ser," he began, his voice oddly brittle and strained. "We go, NOW." Gyles nodded without hesitation, slightly surprised by his loyal squire's sudden ferocious demeanor.

Riding forward, the two of them made for a cramped wynd that led deeper into the city. Gyles felt sick to his stomach as he rode over the carnage surrounding him. He watched as a screaming knight had a rusty dirk shoved through his eye, unable to escape from beneath his dead warhorse. A peasant dragged himself across the blood-soaked cobblestones, with naught but a bloody stump beneath his right knee. "I'm alright," the man sobbed to no one in particular, "I'm alright."

Gyles was astounded when Evenfall successfully reached and entered the wynd, carrying him clear of the utter bloodbath that had nearly been his doom. Mors was right behind him on his spotted rounsey, the poor old beast frothing at the mouth as it bled from a dozen wounds. Following the wynd's twisting and turning path, Gyles was surprised as it widened suddenly, and Evenfall galloped into Cobbler's square.

It was abandoned, though the buildings surrounding its perimeter had been thoroughly looted, some smoldering and burning. Mors nodded further up the main thoroughfare. "A few others made it clear 'afore us. I'd put my coin on finding 'em in the city's main square." The squire let out a ragged cough. Gyles nodded, and he and Mors urged their mounts onward, deeper into the heart of the city.

As they rode along the street, it was as though they'd passed into the center of a forge. On both sides, buildings blazed brightly as they were consumed in an uncontrolled inferno, a rippling multi-colored tapestry with such a terrifying and primal beauty that Gyles found himself utterly speechless, staring in mesmerised wonder.

The heat of the flame was intense, and in his mind Gyles could _feel_ memories of home, riding in the dry plains far south of Yronwood castle under Dorne's relentless sun. Gyles' senses returned to him fully as Evenfall carried him clear of the burning street, into the massive square at the city's center, situated at the base of Visenya's Hill.

A small group was gathered in the center of the massive square, and several heads turned to regard Gyles and Mors as they approached. Though the sounds of rioting drifted on the night air, the square itself was largely abandoned. A small contingent of Gold Cloaks milled about on foot, their cloaks and armor covered in blood. Among them were mounted knights and men-at-arms. Sure enough, those mounted on horses were survivors of the column, for Gyles recognized Ser Harmon of the Reeds and Ser Rayford Lothston, as well as a few others. _Surely this can't be all that remains._

Of the men at the square that had escaped the bloodbath at the Gate of the Gods, Gyles counted less than twenty. _Gods be good. The slaughter was even worse than I imagined_. Gyles once again felt a sense of incredulity at having escaped. _If not for Mors…_ Gyles didn't want to consider the grisly death that he'd nearly suffered. _Twould have been an ignoble and sad end, alone and far from home._

One of the knights rode a short distance out to meet Gyles and Mors as they approached, and Gyles recognized him as Ser Torrhen Manderly, by the merman stitched into his doublet. _And yet no sign of his brother, Ser Medrick._ Gyles grimaced. To die in that frenzied melee was not a fate that he would wish on even his worst enemy.

The visor on Ser Torrhen's helm was lifted, revealing the man's doughy features beneath. His face was flushed, and his eyes sad. Reining up in front of Gyles and Mors, Ser Torrhen began to speak. "Well met. We did not expect for any other survivors to escape the bloodbath at the Gate of the Gods. An utter travesty, that was. Mayhaps our fortunes have begun to change, however, for it was here that we found Captain Balon Byrch of the Old Gate, and Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate."

Two men in gold cloaks sat atop warhorses, wearing black breastplates ornamented with four golden discs. Raising his voice, Ser Torrhen called out to the men around him. "Prithee, gather round." Nodding at the two gate Captains before him, Ser Torrhen continued to speak. "If you will, Captains, inform the rest of these men what you have just imparted to me."

With a nod, one of the two gate Captains edged his warhorse forward, removing his helm and placing it in the crook of his arm. He had close-cropped black hair and an equally dark beard, though both had begun to turn grey. "I am Captain Balon Byrch, of the Old Gate, and the other officer with me is Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate. We had also been accompanied by Captain Robert Waters of the Iron Gate, but I am aggrieved to say that he was slain earlier this very night."

The Captain pointed in the direction of the Hill of Rhaenys as he continued to speak. "The three of us had combined our gates' garrisons and marched forth, and we were able to restore some small semblance of order around Rhaenys' Hill. We received word that some 'prophet' had led a mob up Hill Street from Cobbler's Square to attack the Dragonpit, so we made our way there to disperse them. We took them from behind as they attempted to force their way past the Dragonkeepers defending the Dragonpit's main entrance. They were numerous, and twas a close and bloody thing."

Captain Byrch sighed sadly. "We lost Captain Waters, and many other fine city watchmen as well. However, when Captain Garth struck down the mob's leader, some one-handed mad begging brother, the mob lost heart and fled into the night. We lost far too many men holding the Dragonpit, however. With the men left to us, it would be impossible to hold any of our three gates. It was our intent to travel to the Red Keep to inform the Queen of our successful defense of the Dragonpit, while adding what meager numbers we have remaining to the Red Keep's defence."

Ser Torrhen Manderly nodded gravely. "Thank you, Captain Byrch," the northern knight said courteously. Looking at the ragged, bloody, and tired knights and men-at-arms around him, Ser Torrhen continued to speak. "I should think that we will join you. With the loss of so many fighting men, the safety of the Queen and her family can now be our only concern."

As the men in the square's center began to prepare for their final push to the Red Keep, Gyles turned to Mors, intending to properly thank his squire for saving his life. He was dismayed to see the man crouching a ways off next to his rounsey, which had evidently collapsed and was now laying on its side, breathing raggedly.

Gyles climbed from Evenfall's saddle and approached his squire on foot. The grizzled squire cradled the rounsey's head in the crook of one arm, while he gently stroked its face with his other hand. As Gyles approached, the poor beast seemed to finally expire, going limp and its head slipping from Mors' grasp. With a ragged sigh, the old squire pulled the horse's eyelids closed with two fingers. "Farewell, old friend," Mors whispered sadly.

The squire struggled to his feet as Gyles approached, before staggering and pitching forward. Gyles sprinted forward, managing to catch his squire before he collapsed. "Mors?" he asked, concerned. All strength had left his squire's body, and Gyles struggled to hold him aloft.

"Prithee, Ser, set me down with my horse," the squire grunted, his voice faint. Gyles did as his squire bid him, lowering him to the ground and propping his back up against the flank of his companion. It was then that Gyles noticed the wicked and bloody tear that ran along Mors' left side, slightly above his hip. Whatever weapon had dealt the blow had torn right through Mors' leather jerkin, brutally wrending the flesh beneath.

 _It can't be_ , Gyles thought in disbelief. Looking at his squire in dismay, Gyles tried to think of something he could say, something he could do. Instead, he only managed to croak out one word. "How?" he whispered, feeling a sudden wave of emotion wash over him.

Mors coughed, and Gyles was dismayed to see blood upon his squire's lips. "Before we escaped," Mors grunted, "when I fought off the rabble trying to pull ya from your horse." He grimaced, his eyelids fluttering slightly. "One of 'em stuck me with a spear before I cut him down."

Crouching before his squire, Gyles could only shake his head in denial. _No, no, it's not fair. He saved me!_ "You tried to warn me, to tell me that staying and fighting was hopeless," Gyles muttered, feeling a growing sense of despair. _This is my fault_.

"I did," was his squire's simple response. Gyles closed his eyes and grimaced at the words. Mors let out a wet and wheezing cough before he continued to speak. "All boys dream o' being the bravest man, o' standing strong against some great foe!" Mors smiled weakly. "I did once, a lifetime ago." He then frowned. "And when ya find yourself in the thick of the fight, covered in the blood of foe and friend, you either get lucky, or you die." Mors coughed, hunching over in pain. "And my luck finally ran out tonight." He regarded Gyles with a firm gaze. "Each man only has so much luck, Ser. See that ya don't run out o' yours."

Gyles was utterly despondent. _You can't die now, old man_ , he thought plaintively, _I need you, please._ From the beginning of his exile in the Boneway, to the bloodsoaked cobblestones at the Gate of the Gods, Mors had been Gyles' faithful squire and companion. He freely offered Gyles his lifetime's worth of wisdom, and followed Gyles wherever he went, without complaint. _And he never asked for a single boon in return_. Gyles felt ashamed for once suspecting the old squire of an ulterior motive, when he had first joined Gyles in his travels.

"Mors," Gyles began, his voice cracking. "You've been as good a squire as any knight could ask for…" he shook his head, "no, as good a _friend_ as any man could ask for. It is long past time that I reward you for your faithful service." Standing, he drew his sword, and placed it upon Mors' right shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he began to speak. "Mors of Yronwood," he began, "do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your queen, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

Mors sat in silence for a moment, looking up at Gyles. A smile slowly spread across his grizzled features, even as he struggled to take in another wheezing breath. "I do so swear," was his response, though his voice had become faint.

Gyles moved his blade to the left shoulder of his former squire. "Then take on your new title with pride and distinction, Ser Mors of Yronwood," Gyles said, "may the Seven guide your way."

With a shaking hand, Mors patted his dead rounsey on its flank. "Ya hear that, boy?" he whispered. "You died the noble steed o' a knight!" Reaching into a saddlebag still attached to his rounsey's saddle, Mors pulled an old leather wineskin from within. Pulling the cork loose with his teeth, Mors took a deep swig, sighing in satisfaction. He then nodded weakly at Gyles. "Thankee, Ser," he began, "but I think it's time for ya to go."

Looking behind him, Gyles saw that the mounted knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks were ready to depart. As he hesitated, Mors called out to him weakly. "Go, Ser. I'd like some peace and quiet before the Stranger comes for me."

Mors looked to the sky. "Thesen's the same stars that shine over the Boneway at night." He grinned, taking another swig of wine. "In a strange sort o' way, methinks I made it home in the end." Gyles nodded in acquiescence, and climbed into Evenfall's saddle. As the ragged band of knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks began their trek in the direction of Aegon's High Hill, Gyles spared one more glance back at his faithful squire. The grizzled Dornishman still sat against his dead horse drinking his wine. And as smoke plumes billowed and hungry flames roared, the old man looked to the stars.

* * *

Though the Iron Gate loomed larger and larger in his vision, Gyles barely took heed of it. _How could this have happened?_ The small band of surviving gold cloaks, men-at-arms, and knights had moved quickly, and relatively unimpeded. Though the burning and bloodshed continued throughout the city, many thought better of attacking the heavily armed column moving through the city's heart, and gave it a wide berth while it passed. _Those who remain in the city care much more for gold and other valuables than spilled blood_. The ascent up Aegon's High Hill had taken longer, for none of the gold cloaks save their two Captains rode on horseback.

Upon reaching the cobblestone square at the hill's crest, Gyles' party had been met with a surprise of the vilest sort. _Large banners dangled from towers and walls of the Red Keep that overlooked the city beyond its walls, but were shrouded in the darkness of night. One banner, however, dangled directly above the keep's main gate, visible to all in the square. It was fine black silk, and a magnificent three-headed dragon adorned it. In the light of the torches and fires however, the glitter of gold thread, rather than crimson, was unmistakable._

_For a moment, the courtyard beyond the Red Keep was silent as a mausoleum. "By the Gods," a voice finally murmured in mute horror. No one seemed willing to be the first to move, to accept the awful reality that was plain to all of their eyes. Their decision was made for them, however, as whatever sentries had been posted at the gatehouse sent up a hue and cry, alerting whoever was inside the Red Keep to the presence of the men in the square before the Keep. Springing to action, Ser Torrhen called out to the men surrounding him: "Retreat! We must needs regroup! We can't afford to meet whatever foe lies in wait on their terms!"_

And so it had come to pass that the survivors had fled yet again, this time back down Aegon's High Hill, moving through side streets and wynds with great haste until arriving at the Iron Gate. Once again, having arrived at this arbitrary destination, the members of the party seemed unsure of what their next move should be. _What choices are even available to us? While the usurper's conspirators trapped and slaughtered us at one end of the city, the nearly undefended Keep fell right into the hands of the Greens._

Gyles grimaced. _We are utterly friendless in a burning city, with less than fifty men._ However, since their flight from the square outside the Red Keep, a significant amount of gold cloaks had vanished in the ensuing chaos, dropping their number even lower. Despite this, Ser Willam Royce and many of the knights seemed to be of the opinion that an immediate assault should be mounted on the Red Keep.

"With what army do you propose to take the keep?" Captain Garth of the Dragon Gate began, a scowl on his face. "By what way do you intend to gain entrance to the castle?" When Ser Willam and his supporters had no answer for him, the grizzled gold cloak snorted darkly. "We've a need for every sword that we got left. Wasting lives in a futile assault does little and less for the Queen and her family."

The approach of two individuals on horseback set all on edge, and Gyles was not the only man to draw his blade. Reining up in front of Gyles and the others, they both drew back the hoods of their cloaks to reveal themselves. The first was a man, with a cold and emotionless face, and purple eyes so dark they nearly seemed black. His hair was silver-white, and on his hip was a sword unlike any Gyles had ever seen.

The second rider drew a much larger amount of attention, however. For beneath the heavy black hood was none other than the Queen's mistress of whisperers, Mysaria, though Gyles had heard her referred to as 'Lady Misery' behind closed doors.

She wasted no time in getting to the point, speaking tersely with a frown. "The Red Keep has fallen to conspirators of the usurper. I know not of the fate of the Queen and her family, for I was forced to flee in haste with naught but my sworn protector, Tysaro."

Ser Torrhen spoke next, scratching his chin with a gauntleted finger, and watching Mysaria's face closely. "And how, Lady Mysaria, _did_ you and your companion make such an escape? Surely, whatever means you used to escape could be used as a route back into the castle."

She turned to regard the northern knight. "I know of paths long forgotten, Ser, that are best trodden by as few as possible. I will speak truthfully, and without exaggeration. You do not have enough men to retake the Red Keep. At least one entire garrison of gold cloaks has turned cloak and thrown in with the usurper's cause. With the castle garrison fighting in the streets, I would assume it unlikely that their casualties were grievous while taking the Keep. They hold it now, and have put down whatever short-lived resistance occurred within the Keep's walls."

Many of the men stared mutely at the mistress of whispers with stricken expressions, and Gyles felt a deep sense of despair. _Not only did we fail at protecting the city's gates, but we have also allowed for the Queen and her family to fall into the hands of her enemies while we fought and died in useless skirmishes._ Gyles turned to ask Mors for his thoughts on the current predicament, and was faced with yet another painful revelation. _Mors is dead in the city's main square. I'm left friendless in an increasingly helpless situation._

Gyles grit his teeth in grief and rage. _It appears you have won in the end, Lord Wyl. Your dead son will soon be avenged when my head is added to the spikes atop the Red Keep's gatehouse._ It all felt very unfair. _To travel all this way, and to survive so much, only to die for choosing the wrong side in a war that I had no true reason to even be fighting in._ In the end, Lord Wyl had arranged for an even more elaborate execution than the snake pits his family was known for keeping. _Instead, he allowed me to think I'd escaped his wrath, only to run myself into a noose of my own making._

Gyles was so lost in his thoughts of doom that he nearly didn't notice Ser Torrhen Manderly begin to speak. "Men," he began, "each and every one of you have fought with enough bravery and tenacity tonight to earn a song in their honor." Pausing, he took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "We cannot, _we will not_ , let the sacrifices of those who were slain tonight be in vain!" Gyles had no doubt that the northern knight was thinking of his own brother as he spoke those words.

For a moment, Ser Torrhen sat silently in his saddle. With a small shake of his head, he continued. "There remains only one choice for us to make, though I know it is the one that none of us wish to hear spoken. We cannot help the Queen and her family as our situation currently stands. If we stay in this city, have no doubt that we will all die." Ser Torrhen clenched his fist in rage. "We will all become naught but heads for the usurper Aegon to mount on spikes."

Drawing his sword, Ser Torrhen pointed his sword toward the Iron Gate. "Dying here will not save the Queen and her family. However, if we take this one chance to leave whilst we can, there is a chance that we may prove of use to her again one day. The Queen's cause yet lives on in the Riverlands, and the men of the North march south to uphold her rights as we speak."

Ser Torrhen turned his gaze this way and that, making eye contact with as many men surrounding him as he could. "I will not mislead you. The chances of us living long enough to regroup with the Queen's supporters in the Riverlands are slim. Very slim." Ser Torrhen grimaced. "Though it deals my pride, _my honor_ , a grave blow, I will tell you the only thing that can be done now. To help the Queen's cause, we must abandon this city and ride north."

Ser Torrhen paused for a moment, and when no voices of dissent spoke up, he nodded gravely. "Then let us prepare to be gone from this place with the arrival of dawn. Search the nearby homes and shops for whatever supplies your mount can carry. We will have need of them. But most of all, heed these next words. One day, we will return for this city, _and we will return for our Queen_."

Gyles looked up at the Red Keep. In the shadow of night, and illuminated by the fires burning throughout the city below it, it was a grotesque sight. Gyles felt his hands clench the reins of Evenfall tightly. He thought of the Queen and her children, and the peril that they were in. He thought of Mors, dead and likely to be left to rot in the ruined central square of the city. _Enjoy the city while you have it, Usurper,_ Gyles thought, a black rage consuming him. _And may the Gods have mercy on you and yours when we return for it._


	25. Veron III

**Veron III**

It had rained for three straight days. Their camp, situated in the hills above the shore, had become a sodden mess. The Sunset Sea whipped and raged about, its waves angrily pounding the shore. The Crag stood forlornly in front of them, its ancient spires lit by the occasional flash of lightning. Despite being a relatively small castle, it had proven incredibly difficult to take. When they had first put ashore, Veron had decided that they would opt for a siege, in order to avoid the loss of manpower that always accompanied storming a castle's walls. _Dalton might lack the patience for a siege_ , Veron had thought to himself, _but I have no such limitations._

A month and a handful of drenched days later, he was beginning to have second thoughts. The Crag's stubborn resistance unnerved him as well. If the hearsay and rumors were correct, its Lord, Roland Westerling, was not even present to oversee its defense. Supposedly he was safely ensconced within the Rock itself, helping his daughter to raise the future Lord Lannister. _Some man he must be, to leave his distant kin to defend his own seat from the likes of us_. A hacking cough interrupting his thoughts. A few paces to his left, one of his reavers had doubled over, his whole body shaking as he struggled to regain his breath.

The constant rain had proven detrimental to his men's health and morale. _If this keeps up, we may have to storm the castle_ , _heavy casualties or not_. Turning his back on the Crag, he paced back into the large tent that housed his subordinate commanders. Captains Balon Wynch and Melwick Myre nodded as he entered, and Torgon Blacktyde's brown eyes followed him as he strode to the table that contained a crudely drawn map of the surrounding area. _Tommard may be a shite artist, but he's a damn fine scout. He is just as at home within the wooded hills as he is aboard the Misery._ Brushing his soaking black hair aside, Veron pointed a gauntleted fist at a crudely drawn hamlet that was about a day's march from their current location.

"Given that there is no end in sight for this siege, we are going to need to restock our stores of food. Balon, I want you and your men to accompany me there and help me take whatever we can get our hands on." Veron glanced at the other two. "Melwick and Torgon, I want you to keep up the pressure. No one gets out. If all goes according to plan, Hilmar Drumm and his men should be returning from their little excursion to reinforce you."

The three captains nodded their acquiescence. Taking his leave, he opened the flap of the tent to step out into the muddy thoroughfare that ran through the center of their camp. Moments later, he found himself outside his own tent, scraping the mud from his boots on a stump he kept outside for just that purpose. Entering inside, he grabbed his sword belt from where it hung from a chair, buckling it quickly. His less-than-loving saltwife lay on her side, facing the wall of the tent. He decided it would be best to leave her to whatever dream she had found herself in. _Anywhere is probably better than here_. Wrapping his cloak tightly about his armored frame, he strode out from the slightly warmer confines of his abode into the storm.

A column had formed in the center of the camp, awaiting his signal for departure. Waving them forward, the men began to march in a thin line out of the camp and into the woods beyond. As they walked deeper under the boughs, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and he allowed the ever-eager Merrick to take the lead. The rhythmic clinking of a chain drew Veron's attention to a golden bauble hanging from the neck of one of Balon's reavers. _It looks similar to the one Alannys had made for the day Dalton and I left._ He frowned as he thought of the words Dalton had parted with. That had not be the first time he had hurt their sisters.

_It had been a rainy day much like the one he was currently mired in when they had returned from their last reaving. It had been on that trip that Dalton had claimed Nightfall off of a dead corsair, avenging their fallen uncle in the process. Veron had contented himself with simpler winnings, including some new coins for his collection. Their sisters had awaited them before the Seastone Chair. News of their father's death had roused Dalton's ambitions, and he barely noticed their kin as he strode to take his seat on the vaunted throne. While he barked orders to prepare for his ensconcement as Lord Reaper, Veron had beckoned his sisters to follow him. In one of Pyke's damp alcoves, he opened his satchel, revealing the gifts he had brought each of them from abroad. For Alannys, it was a jade brooch from the seas beyond Qarth. For Asha, it was a small golden elephant made by Volantene artisans. For Morgana, it was a small Tyroshi doll that had come with different colored wigs that could be pinned on and removed based upon the whims of its owner. Veron had hidden these spoils from the other men, knowing they'd never approve, but his sisters' smiles were well worth the efforts. While the others had quickly given him a kiss on the cheek before retreating to their quarters, Morgana had stayed behind, wrapping him into a tight hug._

" _What did I do to receive such a boon?" He had asked, chuckling. "It isn't as though I am the first brother to return with a doll for their sister."_

_Morgana had cast a glance at the great hall before speaking. "Not true Veron. Only the best ones do that."_

Veron realised he had been smiling to himself as he recalled how sincere his sister's tone had been. It was the little things that he missed the most. He'd not seen the gray shores of Pyke for nearly an entire year. In that time, he had killed and looted more than all of his previous reaving expeditions put together. Whilst the sagas and songs had promised that his conquests would make him a legend, he had yet to feel like one. Instead, he found himself wondering what it was all for. When he was in command, fighting a truly challenging foe, he felt alive. But outside of combat, Dalton's campaign hadn't proven to be as rewarding as he might have hoped. Most of his enemies were men who'd never held anything other than a plow or a pitchfork in their hands. Their villages held no riches, and their women, well… _the women were never my priority to begin with_. Even after he'd been presented with the Farman girl he found no fires stirring within him. After the first few nights, he had given up even trying to will them into existence. _Her cold eyes, full of venom, do nothing to stoke my ardor either._ That wasn't to say that he didn't attempt to keep up appearances. He hoped the show he'd put on at Fair Isle had dispelled any potential suspicions, but one could never be too careful.

They spent the entire day marching through wooded hills and vales. The rain itself never stopped, quietly pattering all around them as they traveled. The air itself formed a moist and chilling shroud, soaking through their cloaks and the armor beneath. As the daylight faded and they began to make camp, it was nearly impossible to light any fires. Merrick, ever energetic, simply refused to stop trying. He let out a shout of pure joy the moment he was able to get a small, pathetic flame sputtering. It had taken two hours. Shivering, Veron wrapped himself within the folds of his cloak as tightly as was possible before falling into a fitful sleep.

As the first lights of the morning glinted through the dew and low hanging branches, their party woke, miserably going about their preparations for the raid. Balon Wynch returned, having run reconnaissance in the predawn hours. He guided them out of the woods, stopping at the edge of the trees. Beyond them lay muddy fields, recently harvested for their wheat and barley. The smell of woodsmoke hung thick in the morning air as the peasants cooked their breakfasts. Veron gathered the men around in order to give them their orders.

"Remember- we are here for the food stores. Extra salt wives or thralls are simply extra mouths to feed at this point! I won't tolerate such luxuries on campaign. Get what we need, and do it _quickly._ "

Some grumbled under their breaths, but the men did as they were told and crossed the muddy fields as silently as possible, quietly drawing their blades or lifting axes from their took the lead, watching for sentries, but it appeared that none had been posted. _They are like lambs who've never had to fear wolves._ The raiding party split into smaller groups, filtering out between the various cottages and hovels in order to canvas the entire village. It was only after they had thoroughly infiltrated the hamlet that they began to toss recently lit torches onto the thatch roofs in order to drive their targets from their homes. It did not take long for shouts and screams of surprise to echo through the morning air.

. Following the main path, he found himself facing a crude building with several rooms that he surmised was this hamlet's attempt at an inn. As flames began to lick about the roofs of the hovels all around him, a portly man in boiled leather and a pot helm staggered out of the building. Brandishing a rusting shortsword, he yelled, spittle spewing from a mouth full of yellowed teeth. He charged Veron, hefting a scarred and dented shield that no longer held any recognizable sigil. Veron waited for him in the muck, waiting until the last moment to knock his sword from his hand with a well placed strike. Before the older man could recover, he drove his own sword through what little armor he had. The hedge knight fell to his knees in the mud, wheezing, his breath misting in the cool morning air.

Veron kicked him over and turned to face his next enemy, but the fight was already over. Several bodies (all townspeople) laid about in the mud. His men were already going door to door, seizing any foodstuffs that they could find and piling it onto a cart they had commandeered. He could barely make out the forms of townspeople fleeing into the surrounding hills, lit by the firelight of their own hovels. Absentmindedly, he tore a piece of cloth off of the fallen hedge knight to clean his blade with and turned to leave the way he came.

He was making his way towards the edge of the village when he saw her. The girl had fallen face-down in the mud, a spear shoved between her shoulders. She wore a tattered excuse for a nightgown. Despite a growing sense of dread, he walked closer. When he was but a few paces away, he retched. The bile wasn't the only thing that brought bitter tears to his cheeks. Half-trodden in the mud, still clutched in the girl's hand, was a crudely knit doll.

* * *

Despite his interrogations, none had come forward to admit killing the girl. _They likely suspected I'd cut them in twain, and they were probably right._ Their march home had been quiet, only periodically interrupted by the creaks and groans of the wooden cart as it had been pulled through the forests. Despite his violent rage subsiding, Veron simply could not distance his mind from the sight. What frustrated him was that it was not the first time he had encountered such sights. Despite that, he found himself increasingly fixated on the memory. _It must have been the doll_. His men had noticed that something was amiss as well. None had confronted him, but he could feel their eyes watching him when his back was turned. Focusing on other thoughts was no use; it seemed that whenever the image had finally been pushed from his head some errant thought or memory would cause it to come rushing back. He desperately wished for a drink. _Even more reason to take The Crag_ , he thought to himself, amused. _Their stores of ale should be full for the winter_.

Their arrival back at the camp was greeted with as much enthusiasm as the sodden camp could muster. Whilst they had been unable to take the harvested grain (they had no way to process it) they had been able to seize flour and bread, along with a meagre amount of livestock (a few chickens and two pigs). To complete the haul they'd looted a good deal of salted meat, recently smoked to prepare it for conservation over the winter. While Veron was exhausted from the march and combating his mind, he quickly ascertained that any rest would have to wait. Standing at the entrance to his command tent was none other than Hilmar Drumm, looking decidedly pleased with himself. Melwick Myre and Torgon Blacktyde were waiting as well, but they did not seem to be sharing in Hilmar's glee. Without a word, he brushed past the three of them into the tent. He considered resting against one of the wooden pillars propping the whole construction up, but decided against it. _It is never wise to show signs of weakness amongst subordinate captains. Especially ones who are eager to usurp command_. As the others entered, he noticed an extremely well-crafted sword belted about Hilmar's waist. _I'll be drowned. That blade is Valyrian Steel._ The golden handle shown dimly in the torchlight, and the pommel was carved to resemble a red lion roaring, its eyes rubies.

"I suppose you've been dying to tell us where you obtained that blade, Hilmar."

Hilmar's eyes gleamed darkly in the torchlight. "After you sent me and mine to watch the southern approaches, we received word from our advance scouts that a group o' lads were coming up the seaside road to pay us a visit."

He paused, clearly wishing for someone to pry for more. When no such encouragement was forthcoming, he continued, despite disappointment registering on his features.

"There were forty or so of them, none older than twenty-five name days. We fell upon them in the night. The leader of their band was but a cub, with no business wielding a blade so fine. I cracked his head with nothing but a wooden cudgel. We didn't leave any of those young fools to tell the tale of their defeat."

Veron stroked his chin, its stubble pricking his fingertips. "It would appear that House Reyne sent whatever it could spare to relieve The Crag. If they could only spare 40 green boys, their situation is grim indeed. It appears Lord Jason truly did cripple the West's military capabilities."

Hilmar snorted. "When the Lion Lord went to go play at war, he got more than he bargained for. Now he and his lords are naught but food for maggots. All of the West is ours to take."

Veron eyed him darkly. "That may be so, but I'd settle for The Crag for the nonce. Let us not put the cart before the horse. We still have a castle to take."

He ran his hand along the edge of the map that Tommard had sketched days before.

"The Crag is not a large castle, but its defences are formidable. It stands with its back to the sea, limiting our avenues of approach. As each of you know, our probing attacks have been subjected to fairly intense arrow-fire from the battlements, meaning that any attempt to take it by storm will likely result in significant casualties."

Torgon Blacktyde gripped the hilt of his sword as he spoke. "Veron, we are your leal men. If you order us to take those walls, consider them taken. Your plans have not failed us yet."

Despite his exhaustion, he appreciated the support. "Torgon, none need remind you that you lost your elder brother during a similar attempt to take the walls by force. I admire your confidence, but we Ironborn do not have the numbers to fight a war of attrition with our enemies, even as depleted as they are. We must needs make use of our cunning nature."

Tapping the map, an inkling of an idea began to take shape in his addled mind. Pouring more effort into the errant thought, he began to smile. Glancing up, he was pleased to see his captains watching him with interest.

"He's got an idea, lads." Grunted Hilmar, with the corners of his mouth twitching.

"The Westerlings built their seat along the coast to limit their foes to a single approach, allowing them to concentrate their men and resources along one front. But what is advantageous against Greenlanders is a detriment against us men of Iron."

He paused, wondering if any had caught on to his plan. Several pairs of eyes glinted darkly.

"Hilmar, I want your men to begin constructing a ram. It need not work, but make sure it provides as much protection as possible. Cover the top with any animal skins you've available. In combination with the rain, they should render any boiling oil ineffective."

Turning to Torgon and Melwick, he grinned. "We are going to need a longship, some rope, and a couple lads with no fear of heights."

* * *

They strayed as near to the rocky cliffside as they dared, fighting the waves that threatened to dash their longships against the wickedly sharp rocks that poked from beneath the seas and out from the cliffs. The rain had begun again in earnest. _The Storm God is surely against us with weather like this._ On the deck in front of him, several men were tying the ends of thick ropes into loops. In teams, they began to toss them upwards, attempting to loop them around a sturdy outcropping that hung out from the sheer cliffside about twenty feet above them. It took several tries, but eventually they were able to land the shot. They waited to cheer until thunder split the sky. The men turned to him expectantly.

Looking into each of their faces, he began to speak: "I have no intentions of wasting any time. But know this: the Drowned God will smile upon your bravery today. We are Ironborn, and we conquer with both our _might and our minds_. Now LET'S TAKE THIS ACCURSED CASTLE!"

As thunder once more rumbled above, his men cheered. Veron took a deep breath, pulling on coarse leather gloves that he hoped would give him purchase. He had chosen to wear his plate for the climb, despite knowing that it would guarantee his death by drowning if he fell. _An Ironborn should harbor no fears of drowning. What is dead may never die, but will rise again, harder and stronger._ Gripping the thick rope in his hand, he began to pull himself upwards, pulling himself upwards from the deck of the _Misery_ and towards the outcropping.

To his relief, the outcropping held firm, and the rope showed no signs of fraying. His progress was slow, and the rain poured unrelentingly against his face, blurring his vision. He concentrated on each movement upwards, his grip on the rope a strangling vice. After what seemed like an eternity, his hand collided with stone as he moved it upwards. Gripping the rope tightly with his left hand, he felt for anywhere to grip, wedging his hand into a mossy fissure in the outcropping and using it to pull himself upwards onto the stone ledge. He offered a silent thanks to the Drowned God as the stone supported his weight. Below him, his men cheered at his accomplishment.

Pulling a loop of rope from where it had hung from his shoulder, it took him a couple of tosses to hook it around a battlement that was perhaps fifteen feet above him. He gave it a sharp pull, tightening the knot. Then, he gingerly jumped on it, testing to make sure it'd support his full body weight. After he was certain that it was not going to snap and send him careening to his watery grave, he waited, holding his hand above his eyes to block out the rain. _Now the most important part. Is the distraction working?_ If the Westerlings had still posted guards along the seawall, they had already likely noticed the rope. He waited for what seemed like an eternity (but what was more likely to have only been a few minutes). When no concerned faces appeared to look over the battlements, he knew it was time.

Fortuitously, it was at this moment that Merrick, ever eager, crested the outcropping. Veron took his hand, heaving him upwards. He was quite sure that none could pull off the look of pure elation that was etched across Merrick's features as he slapped Veron of the back, his axe clutched between his teeth. Without a word, Merrick took the next rope and began his climb. A few moments later, it was Torgon Blacktyde's turn to pull himself to the outcropping. As he gripped a mossy edge, the moss tore, his arm flying free. Veron lunged, grabbing his flailing arm before his grip on the rope gave out. Pulling him upwards with a great exertion of effort, they were both left panting on the mossy ledge. Torgon, his face pale from the experience, smiled.

"Thank you, Veron. I know that we Ironborn should not fear drowning, but I had little desire to meet our soaking deity quite yet."

Veron chuckled. "And I had no desire to lose my most vocal supporter. Think nothing of it."

Torgon nodded. "Whatever your reasons, I am grateful. Alas, despite this impressive view, I really should be going. I cannot allow Merrick all the glory."

Standing, he gripped the next line of rope, pulling himself upward. When he had clamored over the battlements, Veron sent Tommard up next, the bowman wordlessly nodding his assent. After a few more handpicked reavers had gone, Veron grasped the rope, motioning for the _Misery_ to depart. _If everything goes as planned, I will see you soon, my sweet lady_.

His next climb was even more nerve wracking, if that was possible. On the first climb he had been able to convince himself that his men would fish him out of the water if he fell. He had no such luxuries for the next, however. Any fall at this point would inevitably be fatal. His muscles, especially in his shoulders and back, had become liquid fire from the strain. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to push onwards focusing only on each upward movement individually. To his satisfaction, he reached the battlements in one piece; his men eagerly pulling him upwards once he was in reach.

Once atop the battlements, he scanned the area. The yard beneath them was bereft of any sentries, living or otherwise. A large keep sat across from them, lights glowing within. It was impossible to see if they were being watched from within its lancets and windows; the rain had rendered the glass opaque. _If they had been aware of our progress, they'd have sent men to address it_. The sounds of battle and shouts echoed across the cobblestones. _It seems the distraction has gone as planned_.

Drawing his blade, he beckoned for his men to follow him around the battlements. Pulling his visor to cover his face, he strapped his shield to his arm from where it had been slung around his back. Their group stalked silently around the curtain wall until the gatehouse came into view. Around forty or so guards and household knights had gathered on the walls facing the landward approach. Many were firing arrows and throwing stones. Others jeered from behind the safety of the battlements, clutching their spears tightly. A grizzled knight, dressed in a light yellow tabard that sported six seashells appeared to be supervising the lot. Veron motioned for his men to gather around him.

"Remember lads, the gatehouse is our top priority. If we can force open the gates, the castle is as good as ours. It appears we need only lift the bar from the gates to open them. A portcullis would have been far more difficult. If we approach from the ground, we can avoid the guardsmen's attention for as long as possible."

The men nodded in understanding, hefting their weapons as rain dripped from their features. Taking the nearest stairwell into the yard, their approach was masked by the din of the Ironborn outside. They had made it to within twenty feet of the gate when the knight atop the walls spotted their approach. _The old man must have a sixth sense_ , Veron thought, feeling a begrudging respect for his enemy.

His eyes widening, the knight shouted, calling for his men to attend to this new threat. Donning his helm over his closely cropped grey hair, the knight of House Westerling quickly drew his sword and descended the stairs to the yard. Over half of the guardsmen joined him, filing downward and forming a hedge of spears guarding the gate. He held up a hand for his men to halt.

"You need not die here." Veron called out across the yard. "Lay down your arms and surrender the castle. I will guarantee your safety."

"Promises from an Ironborn are worth less than the breath used to make them." Huffed the Westerling knight. "Besides you're outnumbered. This will hardly be an even fight."

Veron grinned darkly beneath his helmet. _And like that, I feel truly alive again_. "You are quite right about one thing, Ser. This will not be an even fight."

With that he leveled his sword at the knight and his men sprang into action. Tommard let an arrow fly, striking one of the guardsmen in their eye. The man dropped wordlessly. The other Ironborn rushed the defenders, screaming bloody murder. Veron hefted his sword and crossed the distance between the knight and himself quickly. The older man turned aside his initial probing strikes quickly, causing Veron to raise an eyebrow beneath his helmet. _This old man has talent, I'll give him that._ They circled one another, oblivious to the fight around them, as they tested each other's defenses. After his successive attacks were equally unsuccessful, Veron shifted to a defensive stance. The knight let fly a couple of feints, before lunging for Veron's visor. Blocking the strike with his shield, he brought his own blade to bear in a savage upward strike. To his surprise, his opponent sidestepped the attack.

 _He is too skilled to fall for such a basic maneuver._ His eyes narrowing beneath his helm, he thought to himself. _Perhaps I should give him an 'opening'; he'll be skilled enough to see it_. Veron raised his blade, as if preparing for a downward cut, but exposed his lightly defended underarm to attack. Quick as lightning, the older knight moved to exploit the gap. _I've got you_. With the knight's blade committed to its strike, Veron launched forward with his shield, catching the older man in the chest and knocking him backwards. As his opponent staggered, Veron ended his cut prematurely, whirling around and driving his blade into the stomach of his foe. The knight wheezed sharply beneath his helm, falling to one knee as Veron withdrew his blade.

The knight looked upwards, shakily regarding him through his helm. Through the slit in the visor, Veron could see his eyes regarding him with a cold loathing.

"Damn you to the Seven Hells, Ironborn sc-"

A swift cut across the man's throat ended his curse. He fell wordlessly, his blood darkening the rainy puddle into which he had fallen. All around him, Veron's men were in the process of finishing off the defenders. Two men were already in the process of lifting the bar from the gate. Once they had completed the task, they pulled the massive wooden doors inward, allowing men to pour in from the outside. Leading the charge was none other than Hilmar Drumm, brandishing his Valyrian steel blade and roaring a challenge to any who might be "man enough to face him."

Any men who may have taken him up on that challenge were already in the process of dying, however. In the span of a few minutes, the courtyard was secured. Many of its defenders had thrown down their arms, begging for their lives. Veron directed his men to grant them their requests, herding them into a corner of the yard after having deprived them of their weapons. _I am not my brother. Spilling blood just for the sake of it is a waste. These prisoners can be put to work on something useful, I am sure of it_.

He tasked Hilmar Drumm and Melwick Myre with forcing the doors of the keep open. Using the bar from the outer gate as a ram, they went about pounding the doors down, reducing them to splintered ruins relatively quickly. The few guards that remained quickly cast down their weapons, wanting no part of a lost cause. One pointed them in the direction of the Great Hall. Pushing the doors inward, Veron was taken aback by its beauty. Pillars of seastone stood along its length, with shells and sea creatures ensconced within them. Taken in conjunction with the tapestries along the halls, it gave the impression that they were entering into a court at the bottom of the sea. _Perhaps the Drowned God's own hall resembles this,_ he thought to himself. _Although I would expect it features less art of dancing maidens_.

Scanning the hall, it appeared that those present within were largely composed of smallfolk and castle servants, as none rose to contest their entry. Cowering behind the high table were three children, two boys who looked to have less than ten name-days between them and a girl who might have counted thirteen. Each of their garments featured the same six seashell design that the knight had sported on his tabard. Before them stood a knight with the same design on his chest and a bushy white beard who drew his sword with a shaky grasp that betrayed his advanced age. To his left stood a man in armor of shoddier craftsmanship, more boiled leather and rusted mail than plate. _A hedge knight._ The man's shield sported a snake coiled about a man's arm, its fangs sunk into the flesh. Veron readied his blade, and to his left, Hilmar Drumm readied his Valyrian steel blade, still dripping blood. As the seashell knight took his first step to engage, the hedge knight lunged, driving his blade through the older man's unprotected neck.

The old man's eyes widened in surprise, and he attempted to draw in a gasp, but failed, gurgling up his lifesblood instead. The children behind the table screamed. The ironborn halted in stunned silence.

Wiping the blood from his blade, the hedge knight adopted a neutral posture. "There's no need for further blood to be spilt lads. The old man had resolved to die fighting, so I granted him his wish. I had no such desires. I only ask that you grant me my life in return for taking your side."

Veron scowled. "We men of Iron face our foes from the front. Unlike you Greenlanders, there is no honor in stabbing an old man in the back." Turning to his men, he made a quick gesture, and Tommard put an arrow through the hedge knight's chest before he could raise his shield. The man's face tensed, and he crumpled to the floor clutching the shaft sprouting from his core. Veron sighed.

To his left, a raucous laughter began. "That was a fine speech, Veron." Turning to the men still streaming into the keep, Hilmar raised his blade in the air. "The keep is OURS!"

The shouting was deafening, and the louder it got, the more those huddled across the hall shrunk and cowered. One young woman was attempting to hide herself behind a tapestry.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder. "I think it is well past time we divided the spoils of this conquest. Given that your brother will expect you to return to his side, I would be happy to stay behind in order to hold this place in your name."

Turning to face Hilmar, he couldn't help but observe his dark eyes gleaming. _I am certain he wouldn't be opposed to gaining a keep and a blade of Valyrian steel in the span of a few days._ He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Instead, he turned to Melwick Myre. _Best to grant this place to a man of proven loyalty._

"Melwick, this keep occupies a strategic location along the coast, and is dear to the heart of the Lady of the Rock, a former Westerling. You have served under me since Lannisport. It is only fitting that I grant you this seat."

His words were met with a smile and a scowl. Melwick Myre, smiling, was lifted upwards by his crew and carried off as they looked for something to drink in celebration. Hilmar Drumm, on the other hand, had turned to ice.

"I handled the storming of the keep, Veron. That decision was ill-advised."

"You handled the storming of the keep in conjunction with Melwick Myre. And _I_ would advise _you_ to hold your tongue, lest I decide that you must needs be parted from it."

A war of emotions fought itself behind Drumm's eyes, but he managed to stay his tongue. His grip upon his blade remained white-knuckled, however. The silence remained deafening until Merrick spoke up.

"Lord Reaver, what say you regarding the prisoners? What are your orders?"

Veron surveyed the crowd assembled before him. Over one hundred pairs of eyes, all terrified, seemed to bore into him. Behind him, he felt the eyes of his men eagerly set upon him as well. A few of the captains, both Drumm and Wynch among them, were eyeing the Westerling girl with interest. _They wish to know if she has flowered. That would mean the difference between a valuable prisoner and a prestigious salt wife_.

He ordered the children to be brought forward. Several men led them forward. The boys wept, and to Veron's disgust he saw that one had made water beneath his garments. As the girl was forced to her feet, he saw that she was clutching a doll fiercely to her chest. Bile rose in his throat, and his hand quivered. He gazed at the men assembled around him, their eyes akin to those of wolves. Turning his head back to the children, he felt a cold chill run down his spine.

"Find somewhere to put those mewling babes. Dalton wanted them delivered in chains, and so he shall have them." He swallowed, clenching his fist tightly in an attempt to keep it from shaking. "The girl is mine."

Merrick, seemingly unaware of his captain's turmoil, spoke again. "And the others?"

"Do with them what you will. Remember, however, that they are now the subjects of Melwick Myre. Mistreat them and you will answer to him and his men."

With that, he strode from the Great Hall, intending to find his way to the Lord's chamber, or at least a chamber that would suit his needs for the night. _I need a few stiff drinks to shake whatever this is that plagues my mind_ , he thought to himself. Following the stairs of the keep upwards, he called for a barrel of ale or several wineskins, whichever could be found more quickly. All around him were Melwick Myre's men, eagerly ransacking the keep for anything of value. One passed him two full wineskins, and he wasted no time in uncorking one and taking a deep draught. Crashing into a bedchamber with a view of the sea, he continued to drink, guzzling the wine like a thirsty man would water. _Why does that girl haunt me so?_ He knew the answer, but it brought him no solace. _Another gulp of wine brought an image of a girl face down in mud, a spearpoint through her back. But this new image was different. The girl wore a dress of black, a golden kraken stitched into the bodice. A Tyroshi doll was still clutched tightly in one hand_. His hands began to shake again.

He was so lost in the image that he did not hear the man enter behind him. Veron only became aware of his approach once he joined him at the window that looked out over the stormy sea.

"Many would not have understood what you did today."

Turning to Torgon, he grimaced as the man began to look concerned. _He can see that something is wrong with me_.

Torgon frowned. "I can see that you're under a great deal of strain, Veron. But I wanted you to know that I saw what you did for what it truly was: an act of kindness. Our ways have fashioned many a cruel man out of an eager boy. I was pleased to see that you had not been lost as well."

Despite his best efforts, a tear ran down his cheek. He attempted to mask it by taking another deep swig of wine. "That girl slain in the village still haunts me. I cannot get her out of my mind. She must have been the same age as Morgana."

Torgon nodded in understanding. Veron's hand, still tightly clenched, began to shudder again. As it did, another hand placed itself atop of it. Surprised, Veron looked up.

Torgon's look was one of empathy. "Just know that you're not alone, Veron. I understand and I want to help."

 _He… is like me?_ Veron was stunned. Before he could act on whatever he was feeling, a small cough interrupted the moment. They both flew around to face whoever it was who had seen them. Standing in the doorway were his two salt wives. The elder one stood behind the younger, her hands on her shoulders. A look of recognition flitted across her features before they returned to their normal unassuming and disinterested state.

Flustered, Torgon began to leave the room. "I will have the ships ready for an early departure tomorrow, my lord. If the winds are favorable it should be a swift journey to Fair Isle."

Veron blinked. "Thank you, Torgon. Let us hope the Drowned God favors us."

After he had left the room was silent. Eventually, the Farman girl closed the door behind her. Veron found a chair and collapsed in it, slowly untying the leather knots that fastened his plate about him. He tried avoiding eye contact, but could feel the eyes of both upon him. Finally he spoke.

"Whatever you both saw, I assure you that…"

"Veron, peace. There was nothing to see."

He was surprised to hear the Farman girl's voice. She rarely spoke to him. Meeting her eyes, he whispered, "thank you."

She met his gaze for the first time in a long while. "My name is Elissa. And this is Eleyna. She had something she wanted to say to you as well."

The Westerling girl blinked. Clutching her dress, she raised her eyes to meet his, before whispering. "Lady Elissa explained that you're keeping us away from the bad men."

Veron was speechless. But he also felt some of his internal anguish grow quiet. "I'm… trying, Eleyna." Turning to face Elissa, a slight, wan smile danced on his lips. "It is nice to meet you both."


	26. Gaemon VII

**Gaemon VII**

The great red dragon had managed to pull itself nearly to the walls of Harrenhal itself before it finally expired. Caraxes's maw lay open, its long barbed tongue swollen with rot and its eyes glazed over in death. It was missing a wing, and behind it a mess of great black entrails lay trailing. Despite the onset of winter, lake flies still swarmed about the massive corpse. Gaemon had already been forced to swat a few that had begun to investigate him, likely searching for sources of fresher, warmer meat.

When they had first alighted outside the great walls of Harrenhal, the sight of the fallen Blood Wyrm had been a cause for great alarm. Gaemon himself had been stunned, his emotions roiling within him. Fear had certainly been an element, along with dismay. Some small sparks of rage as well. Whatever his feelings regarding the beast's rider, he lamented its passing sincerely. Concerns about Aemond had also immediately come to the fore. Maegor regarded the fallen beast silently, his clenched fists the only sign of the rage that had been burning within him for the last several days. Addam's characteristic purple eyes had been darkened with worry ever since they had landed. The three Reachman had been mostly silent, observing the great dragon's corpse with no small amount of consternation. Unlike Maegor, Tom Flowers was not even trying to hide the hate that spilled from his eyes. Of their group, he was the first to speak.

"It appears we've arrived too late, _for the second time_. The accursed _Kinslayer_ has managed to kill the greatest dragon that remained to us. We ought to fly back to Maidenpool and roast its cowardly Lord for allowing this to happen."

While Maegor did not speak, it was clear that he was sorely tempted by the proposition. It harkened back to his own, only a few days prior.

* * *

_Their arrival over King's Landing had been akin to the beginning of a nightmare. The smoke had been visible for several leagues, and the stench of death was discernible even hundreds of feet above the ground. The city was caked in ash, and many of the buildings that lined its streets were in ruins. Initially, Gaemon had feared that the Kinslayer had stolen a march on them, descending from the Riverlands to burn the city whilst they had been away. The lack of any immediate response to their arrival made him doubt that notion, however. They circled over the city, searching for any sign of what had occurred, but the streets were largely empty. The few living souls visible below had vanished the moment that the three dragons had appeared above the city. It was Tumbleton writ large._

_The most horrifying revelation had been when they had flown for the Red Keep. Gaemon had held out hope that the Queen had been able to bar the gates of the Keep during the attack, preserving herself and her family within its sturdy walls. The banners that hung from its ramparts destroyed any remaining hopes that he might have had, however. Great three-headed dragons rippled in black silk from the battlements, but instead of red, the beasts were sewn of gold. He had urged the Cannibal to halt above the keep itself, being of half a mind to begin burning the castle, but stopped short upon considering the ramifications. If the Queen and her sons were still alive, burning the Keep would surely bring about their deaths, one way or another. Most importantly, Baela herself could have also been captured. The thought turned his stomach, but was enough to dissuade his rage. As he urged the Cannibal to fly north, one final horror made itself known below. In one of the Red Keep's side courtyards, the large yellow-scaled form of Syrax lay unmoving, its chains still attached. Where its head would have rested was a bloody ruin, its blood caked amidst the cobblestones._

_Lord Alan Tarly had evidently seen the same sight, as over the sound of the wind whipping about his helm, Gaemon had heard him utter an oath of vengeance._

_The three dragons had landed on a windswept hill about a league north of the Dragon Gate. The three riders and the three passengers had remained silent for a few moments, occasionally casting furtive or enraged glances at the city still smoking behind them. Cold winds buffeted them from the North, keeping the smells of ash and decay at bay. Maegor had been the first to speak, his voice cast about in an ice-cold whisper._

" _We ought to make good on our threats. While we engaged in parley, those treacherous snakes made their move. If we depart now, we ought to be able to catch the remnants of the Hightower host on their march south. This time, we should allow for no survivors."_

_The three men of the Reach had nodded in agreement. Alan Beesbury had spoken next._

" _We should never have stayed in that accursed camp for so long. The Usurper's armies are composed of faithless lords and false friends. Their deaths would be a welcome boon for the realm. Whilst Lord Unwin and Ser Hobert haggled, our enemies seized the city, and mayhaps our Queen as well."_

_Alan Tarly took another look at the city before adding his voice to the impromptu council._

" _It is impossible to tell what has transpired in these past few days. Judging by the embers I spotted whilst we flew, it appears that the sack happened recently. The gates themselves are mostly shattered ruins and the city seemed nearly empty. If a hostile army had seized it, we'd have spotted the men in its employ beneath us. I think it is unlikely that Lord Baratheon is responsible for this. Our Queen's enemies may have come from within."_

_Gaemon had nodded grimly._

" _That does seem likely. The only armed men I observed from the air were the Gold Cloaks that fled from the Red Keep's walls on our approach." He had then taken a few moments to consider his next words. "The Queen's own mount has been butchered within the walls of the keep. Whoever killed it hacked its head off as a trophy. I saw no wounds on its body that would have been dealt by a hostile dragon. It seems neither the Usurper nor the Kingslayer had any part in this assault. With both of them seemingly still at large, I feel we cannot afford to spend any more time chasing down the remnants of the Hightower host. We cannot afford to divert our attention from the Green's remaining dragons. Besides, it will require all of us to slay Vhagar, if she still lives."_

_It was then that Addam Velaryon had spoken._

" _I concur with Ser Gaemon. The army at Tumbleton is a shattered remnant. It is unlikely that it will ever pose a threat to the Queen's forces that remain in the field. Whilst they may deserve death, we must needs regroup with the other riders remaining in the Queen's service and plan our next move. The lives of both the Queen, her sons, the Lady Baela, and mine own grandfather may depend on our next steps."_

" _My…" Gaemon paused, catching himself. "The Prince Daemon was stationed alongside Nettles at Maidenpool during our search for the Kinslayer. We ought to make haste there."_

_Maegor's eyes had narrowed as he had realised that he was being outvoted. Without a word, he turned to mount the Grey Ghost. Before he could do so, Tom Flowers had put a hand on his shoulder._

" _There will be time enough to hunt down every one of those animals, lad. When you do decide to put them down, you'll have my sword in aid."_

_Gaemon had frowned as Maegor gave a barely perceptible nod in response._

* * *

_If any of the group had harbored any remaining hopes, the sight of Maidenpool had quickly dashed them to pieces. The Usurpers golden dragon banners hung from the walls of the castle that sat above the port town. Gaemon was immediately concerned for the fate of Nettles; he was shocked that Lord Manfryd Mooton had betrayed the cause of the Queen, having been one of her earliest supporters._

_The story had been relayed to them after they had landed by a tearful maester and a petrified Lord Manfryd. According to them, they had been ordered to kill Nettles by the Queen herself, due to rumors that she had been carrying on an affair with Prince Daemon. All of the information had stunned him. Despite having been threatened by the Queen herself, he couldn't bring himself to believe that she would willingly break Guest Right. Maegor had been unwilling to believe the tale told by their terrified hosts, arguing that words were wind, and that recent events had ruled out trusting any Green. He refused until Lord Manfryd's Maester, Norren, had presented them with the letter itself._

" _Sers, you must believe that we took the path we all deemed most honorable. The Lady Nettles was allowed to depart in the morn. Lord Daemon broke his fast with us, before departing for Harrenhal. Not long after we struck the Queen's banners, believing ourselves to be traitors. If you will not spare me, I beg thee to spare my children, and the people of this town. They had no part in this treacherous business."_

_The proof of the Queen's ruthlessness had been a sobering experience for both Gaemon and Maegor. When they had spoken amongst themselves, Gaemon had offered his thoughts._

" _Lord Manfryd seems genuine. I do not feel he deserves to burn. More than anything, I feel we are in his debt for sparing Nettles."_

_His mind had struggled to process all of the events and new information of the past several days. It felt as though years had passed since his departure from King's Landing for Pinkmaiden. While the news of Nettle's supposed affair with his father was shocking, he couldn't help feeling that the entire idea was hilarious. The image of his aloof and disinterested father plowing the lowliest and most foul-mouthed peasant girl he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting threatened to send a howling cackle forth from his lips, despite the grim circumstances._

_Maegor then spoke, his tone a bit softer than it had been for days. "I… I suppose that for sparing Nettles we ought to forgive Lord Manfryd."_

_Addam had wordlessly nodded his agreement, and Gaemon had delivered their decision to the pale Lord moments later._

" _Lord Manfryd, as arbiters of the Queen's will, you have undoubtedly committed treason. But as men, we are in your debt. We had not been informed that the life of our friend and fellow rider was in danger. Your actions saved her life, and for that, we have decided to spare yours. Men of honor such as yourself are a rare sight in the midst of a war as cruel as the one we are embroiled in, and it would not do to discourage such actions."_

_The Lord had fallen to his knees as he heard the proclamation, thanking them for their mercy, both on his behalf and on behalf of the town._

_Gaemon, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, had finally asked the Lord of Maidenpool if he had any idea of Nettles' whereabouts. The Lord denied having any knowledge of where she had gone, uttering only that "she vanished into the morning mists as she flew over the Bay of Crabs."_

_After the Lord and his entourage had departed, the riders had decided to fly for Harrenhal, in hopes of finding Prince Daemon and martialing what forces remained to the Queen. Gaemon found himself sorely tempted to fly across the Bay of Crabs and search for Nettles. As he cracked his Dragonwhip above the Cannibal's head, urging it to propel itself into the evening sky, he could not help but cast a wistful glance across the bay, his eyes straining for any sight of his lost friend._

* * *

"Ser Gaemon, what are your thoughts?" Asked Alan Beesbury. The eyes of the party turned to regard him, some cold, some blazing with fury.

Gaemon sighed. "We already forgave the actions of Lord Manfryd. We cannot afford to go back on our word, and our honor. If we do so, we will be no better than the likes of the Usurper's lackeys." Tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword, he racked his brain for a course of action. "Firstly, we must needs determine whether the Kinslayer lives. If the Red Wyrm and its rider slew him and Vhagar, our concerns are unfounded."

"Where might we ascertain such information?" Asked Lord Alan Tarly.

"We ought to explore the pile of ashes once known as Harrentown. In my youth, I attended a tourney beneath these same walls. In those days, this town was bustling, full of life. If the Seven favor us, some of that life may remain, hidden away out of the sight of dragons and their riders." Beesbury posited.

Addam Velaryon stroked his chin, adding "it is quite possible that some survivors remain. Harrenhal has changed hands several times. The smallfolk that remain would likely have developed an understandable fear of dragons."

Gaemon struggled to imagine how terrifying the lives of the residents of Harrentown must have been for the last several months. From what he had heard in King's Landing, Aemond had scoured the castle and town with Vhagar's flames several times during his campaign in the Riverlands. _If any survivors remain, we must needs be on our guard. Our arrival on dragons will not have been greeted with open arms._

Leaving their mounts along the beach (along with stern warnings to leave the corpse of Caraxes unmolested), the group hiked in double file up the grassy dunes towards the remnants of Harrentown. Entering through what must have been a wooden palisade in the past, their exploration took them towards the center of the ruins, which in years past had likely been a market square. The winds of winter blew coldly, stirring up small whirlwinds of ash about their feet and causing them to pull their cloaks more tightly about their shoulders. Lord Tarly's eyes scanned the ruins warily, his sword hand never straying far from the hilt of _Heartsbane_. Gaemon and the other seeds kept their hands upon the hilts of their own blades, grateful that they still wore the castle-forged black plate that had been crafted for them. When they reached the blasted doors of a former inn, Gaemon very nearly jumped when a ragged man emerged from its dark interior, his hands raised. His stomach, distended from starvation, pressed outward against the rags that he had wrapped himself within.

"Peace, m'lords. I mean ya no harm. We saw you flying from the southwest and scrambled ta hide. Might I ask your business 'ere?"

Untying his satchel from around his shoulders, Gaemon withdrew a crust of barley bread and a sliver of salted pork. Offering it to the man, he spoke.

"We have come for information. We, as riders in the Queen's service, have come to learn the fate of the dragon Vhagar and her rider."

The man's eye lit up at the sight of the food. Taking them hesitantly from Gaemon's hand, he answered between bites as he tore into the offerings with brown teeth.

"Was that the -mmph- big green 'un? A couple 'o days back, two great beasts, one red, one green, took to the skies -mmph- above the lake. From where we were 'iding, we couldn't see exactly was 'appened, but it only took a few moments afore the green 'un hit the lake with a mighty roar. The red one -mmph- a mean bugger, pardon my language m'lords, crawled up halfways to the town ruins. I'm sure you've seen what's left of 'im though."

Gaemon exchanged looks with the others. "You are _certain_ that the green dragon fell into the lake? And that it did not surface again?"

The man nodded several times for extra emphasis. "She 'asn't surfaced again masters. I swear on the Seven."

Tom Flowers' face broke into a savage grin. "Finally, some _good fucking news_. Whether the Kinslayer crawled out of that lake or not is irrelevant. The Usurper's greatest dragon is fish food."

The Alans clapped each other on the back, and a weight seemed to lift from Maegor's broad shoulders.

The peasant guffawed, clearly wishing to join in on the celebratory mood. He then cleared his throat before speaking.

"Pardon m'lords, but if ye want proof of 'is death, me and my lad could take our boat out and go fishing. I've got a boat 'idden in the reeds. Wouldn't be too 'ard to go diving and see what we find. Shouldn't be too dangerous since the water 'as stopped boiling."

Gaemon nodded. "We would be in your debt if you could bring us proof of the Kinslayer's death. The dragon would likely be too difficult to retrieve."

While he had meant the last part as a jest, the man nodded gravely, clearly agreeing that Vhagar's corpse would be nigh impossible to raise from the depths.

"Me and mine will set out at first light tomorrow, m'lords."

Nodding Gaemon handed him some additional bits of food from his satchel in thanks. As he scurried inside the ruined inn, the group gathered. The moon had risen high in the night sky, and with the absence of the Sun's rays the air had become bitingly cold.

"We must needs seek shelter. I've not made it all this way to freeze to death." Muttered Ser Alan.

"I second that sentiment." Added Lord Alan.

Almost in unison, they all cast their eyes towards the massive ruined towers of Harrenhal, its spires colored a mixture of silvery white and deep black by the rays of the moonlight.

"Haunted or not, Harren's folly certainly offers us the best prospects of a well-deserved slumber. Its previous inhabitants may have even left some of the furniture for us to use." Ser Alan quipped.

Too tired to fear the prospect of ghostly Harren and his sons, the group made its way into Harrenhal. The curtain walls alone were gigantic, far taller than any walls Gaemon had observed previously. Once through the massive gatehouse, the sheer size of the five towers themselves became apparent; their tops sporting fissured and melted stone, courtesy of the Conqueror. The sight was breathtaking. _A castle truly befitting a King_. Given their exhaustion, there was no time to explore, nor even to check for other residents. The six of them entered the nearest tower, its ground floor the size of a keep in and of itself. It housed a table large enough to seat sixty men at least. Tom Flowers, in no mood to seek out firewood, cut three chairs into manageable pieces before piling them into the fireplace and setting them alight. Maegor and Addam climbed the stone stairs cut into the tower walls in order to search for bedding, returning after a few moments with armfuls of furs.

Mindful that the men in their company had recently been prisoners, Gaemon offered to take the first watch. None protested, untying the leather knots that held their plate armor about them with a speed that would impress the most dedicated of squires before collapsing into their respective piles of furs. Wrapping what appeared to be a great black wolf's pelt about his shoulders, Gaemon took a seat near the tower doorway. He had little reason to believe they were in danger, but the shocking events of the past few days had left him feeling exposed and wary.

So much had transpired in such a short time. _My father is dead._ He thought matter-of-factly. He forced himself to confront the issue, examining his thoughts. Oddly, although he felt as though he should feel mournful, he felt nothing. _Perhaps I would have felt differently had he showed any interest, or any acknowledgement of my existence. Baela seemed convinced that underneath the disinterested exterior he did act to some degree in my interests, but his advocacy to grant me Stone Hedge could have been a coincidence._ Gaemon sighed. _As cold as this sounds, his death is almost… liberating. Letting go of the Rogue Prince will make me stronger. It will make me my own person, living outside of his long shadow._ For so long, he had found himself fixated on obtaining the Rogue Prince's acknowledgement. When he'd arrived in King's Landing and the man had turned his back on him, he hadn't been sure what to do. He was immensely grateful for Baela's presence during those times. She had meant more to him than many of the others during those difficult days. _Her acceptance has helped me to accept myself. Not as Gaemon Targaryen, but as Gaemon Waters._ He desperately hoped that she was safe, alive even. He couldn't imagine losing her at a time like this, if ever. _I cannot lose her just as I am in the process of finding myself._

He reached below the collar of his shirt, grabbing ahold of the leather pouch that still dangled around his neck. Reaching inside, he pushed the cold golden dragon aside and grabbed the small lock of white hair still tied together with a tiny ribbon. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he smiled. _She's twice the dragon that I am. What I would give to have her here now_. Soft footfalls brought him out of his reminiscence.

Without his armor, Addam Velaryon was still a small lad. On Dragonstone, some had described him and his brother as 'silver mice'. Strangely, instead of finding that description insulting, he and his brother Alyn had taken those words as compliments. The silver-haired boy of no more than fifteen name-days brought over a chair to sit across from him, his deep purple eyes studying him. Gaemon nodded in greeting.

"I would have thought that you'd have been fast asleep by now, Ser Addam."

Addam gave him a wan smile. "It seems that the fates of women keep us both awake, Ser Gaemon." He paused. "Is she from Lys?"

Gaemon was perplexed by the question, until he realised Addam had been referring to the lock of hair in his hand.

"My grandfather tells me that Lys is home to many beautiful women who maintain the fabled looks of Valyria. I was curious if your secret love could trace her roots there."

Gaemon forced a grin. While Addam's smile was genial enough, there was an edge to it that he did not like.

"My 'secret love' does indeed take after Valyria's women of old. I suppose that growing up on the craggy bluffs of Dragonstone gave me a powerful appreciation for the beauty of Valyrian women."

Addam nodded. "While I might've been blessed with similar features to my father, I too share that appreciation." He smiled again, clutching a stag's pelt around his shoulders. He adopted a more serious look as he asked his next question.

"How does your love fare?"

Gaemon sighed. "I last saw her in King's Landing. I fear for her safety."

Addam nodded. "I also fear for a girl. She too was in King's Landing when I last saw her. I had hoped that she might've escaped via the Dragonpit, but if she had I would've expected her to fly to Maidenpool. It seems unlikely that she was able to flee. I had hoped to ride to war with her favor, but she was oddly reluctant to grant it when I departed for Pinkmaiden."

Gaemon frowned. "I am… sorry to hear that Ser Addam. It must have been painful to depart with such a rejection."

The boy opposite him met his gaze, his purple eyes searching his face. Whatever he sought, it seemed that he did not find it.

"It is… no matter. My grandfather assured me that the key to any maiden's heart is persistence." He chuckled. "He also said being the heir to an ancient and wealthy seat helps a great deal."

Gaemon nodded. "I would imagine that both of those play an important role in courtship."

"I would expect they do. My grandfather married a princess, so I would hope he would be an expert in such matters!" Addam grinned halfheartedly. "I have done my best to serve the Queen honorably in all things, and to bring honor to my house despite my bastard birth. I only hope my actions to this point have registered with the Lady whose heart I pursue."

 _He and I both fear for Baela._ Despite his growing sense of apprehension, Gaemon was unwilling to be cruel to the boy across from him. It occurred to him that despite his initial jealousy of him, Addam might have even greater burdens to carry than himself. _Legitimisation may have brought recognition, but he also carries the hope of an entire house on his shoulders- as well as the enmity of those whose hopes for inheritance he dashed._ Gaemon couldn't help but feel sympathy for him. Reaching across the space between him, he gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"You know, you and I are not so different. Hull isn't that much larger than Windy Bluff, and certainly no more enticing to a _highborn_." He chuckled. "While you may not have been able to share a barracks with us on Dragonstone or within the Dragonpit, you are still a dragonseed. And dragonseeds must needs look out for one another!"

Addam offered a small smile. "I fear for my grandfather, and brother. It has been difficult to be apart from them, especially from Alyn. We've never been separated for this long before."

Gaemon nodded. "Maegor is as close to a brother as I am like to get, and I certainly would worry for him if we were separated. But have faith in your brother. I'm sure he and your grandfather will persevere."

Meeting his eyes once again, Addam spoke. "Thank you, Ser Gaemon."

Gaemon grinned. "Mayhaps it is about time for us to dispense with the need to use our knightly titles."

"Mayhaps it is indeed. In that case Gaemon, I will now take the second watch."

Nodding, Gaemon rose and took a place near the hearth. For many, laying so close would bring discomfort, but for him the heat and the flames instantly dispelled the cold from the exterior, washing over him like a wave. The flames danced and whirled, consuming the wood piled high within the hearth. The red and orange hues seemed to climb higher and higher in the hearth, and where they burned the hottest, the tongues of flame seemed to writhe in ways he'd not seen before. Before his eyes, they twisted into the form of a woman, whose eyes regarded him with cold appraisal. Sitting up, he glanced around the room, but all appeared to be asleep, save for Addam, who faced the door. Returning his gaze to the flames, he blinked, but the woman remained. When she opened her mouth to speak, embers spit and crackled forth.

"Gaemon, son of Daemon, son of Marys, we must needs speak. The flames have shown me much and more, and they could show you the same. Find me in the Kingspyre tower during the Hour of the Wolf."

Her eyes, despite being composed of white hot flame, sent a chill through him. She turned, seemingly walking back into the flames, and they died down, dancing normally as they had moments before. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, casting a glance around the chamber. None of the others had stirred, and Addam remained facing away. It was as though nothing had happened. While moments before he had been exhausted, his heart was now racing. _The Hour of the Wolf cannot be far off. I must needs make my way there now._

Standing, he debated whether to don his plate, but decided that armor was unlikely to have any worth in the events that were to come. Reattaching his sword belt, he stood. Wrapping himself tightly in the great black wolf pelt once more, he approached the doorway. Addam turned to regard his with curiosity at his approach, but Gaemon assured him that he would not be gone overlong. Opening the wooden door as quietly as possible, he pushed outwards into the bitterly cold night. The moon still hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the castle yard and turning gnarled trees into grasping hands. Gaemon vaguely remembered from past conversations that Kingspyre Tower was the tallest of Harrenhal's spires, but as he walked amongst the titanic fortress, it was difficult to ascertain which of them fit that description. He was growing concerned that he'd never be able to determine where he was supposed to go when he saw the firelight. Light danced behind the cracks of the doors of the tower ahead of him, its fiery warmth a welcoming invitation for respite from the cold dark that surrounded him. Crossing the remaining distance quickly, he paused at the entrance, overcome momentarily by an intense feeling of foreboding. Pushing such thoughts aside, he drew the door back far enough to allow him to enter the great hall.

Upon his entry, the great door squealed as it closed shut behind him. Apart from its groaning protest, the hall was silent but for the crackling of flames. Hearth after hearth burned brightly within Harrenhal's vast reaches, casting light and shadow all about the chamber. The flickering and dancing shadows gave the impression of a vast assembly, dancing some unknowable and exotic dance. As he crossed the great empty hall, Gaemon realised with a start that the great fires burning in each alcove appeared to be burning freely, without kindling. He charted a path in the most well-lit portion of the hall, where the light of the flames overlapped and the shadows were kept at bay. For what seemed like an eternity, he crossed the length of the hall, before slowing his approach when he saw the woman.

She stood before the greatest fire in the hall, which burned in a massive fireplace carved from great stone blocks. A great stone crest was partially illuminated by the flames, depicting a raven, a longship, a pine tree and a cluster of grapes, separated by chains. The crest was likely the height of several men, and was only partially obscured by a banner that had been hung over it, depicting the red, green, and blue stripes of House Strong. The woman beneath the sigils of ancient dynasties also radiated an aura of power, and Gaemon suspected that the scent of fire and smoke did not emanate entirely from the fires themselves. Long black hair fell unhindered down her back, whilst her stomach was noticeably pronounced, suggesting a pregnancy. Her eyes, however, were the most striking element about her. The light of the flames danced within them.

Stopping a few paces from the woman herself, Gaemon placed a hand on the hilt of his blade.

"I have answered your summons." He waited, unsure of what else to say.

An enigmatic smile danced across her lips. "You need not have brought a blade, Gaemon Waters. It would not avail you." Pausing, she turned to face the flames. "I did not summon you to slay you. I summoned you as I believe we have need of each other."

Letting his hand fall to his side, he joined her at the edge of the flames. "I do not even know your name. What leads you to believe that I have need of you?"

Turning once more to face him, the woman studied him. Now that he stood closer, he found it difficult to look away. She had an ageless quality about her, and the combination of flame and shadow only enhanced the effect, at once making her appear both a youthful girl and a matriarch. Now that he stood in her presence, he could feel heat radiate off her, as though she concealed a flame of her own.

"Your curiosity is understandable, Gaemon Waters. In my life, I have been known by many names, but for you, Alys Rivers will suffice. As for what I can do for you, you need only look into the flames."

Turning to face the roaring fire, he stared into its depths intently. At first he saw nothing but tongues of flame, orange and red and white. After a moment of concentration, however, fiery images began to manifest. A corridor, lit only by torches, lined with heavy doors, reinforced with steel. Each cell held an occupant. In the first, the Queen lay curled in a corner. Despite being stripped of her crown and finery, Rhaenyra was still unmistakable. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and they stared right through where he would be standing had he been physically present. Pulled outward, he found his vision thrust into the other cells. First Prince Aegon, sleeping fitfully amidst the rushes, the Prince Viserys, his small form shivering from the cold, and finally, _Baela._ Her food lay untouched at the foot of the door, and she still wore the close fitting clothes he remembered her favoring. To look into her eyes was to look into the eyes of one who'd lost everything. He wished desperately that he could reach through the flame to comfort her, or even to speak across the vast distances a single word of support. He raised his arm to caress her, but his hand only felt the heat of the flames. He regretted his action immediately, as his movement seemed to disrupt the vision, and the flames swallowed up Baela's image greedily.

"The flames can show us much and more, Gaemon Waters. No castle wall is too thick, nor any distance too great. I can teach you what I know of the flames, but I will need a favor from you in return."

Pausing, he considered her words. "And what is this favor that you require of me?

Alys Rivers turned to face him once more, her expression cold and guarded. "The fires of life flicker in my womb. My love has been taken from me, and I fear that I may lose his son as well. I have ne'er successfully birthed a child, and I couldn't bear to let this flame die out." She studied him silently for a moment. "The blood of kings runs in your veins, Gaemon Waters. I can feel its fiery power even from whence I stand. Grant me some of your blood, that I might use its powers to save my child. In return, I will teach you what I know of flame."

 _She requires my blood for her sorcery?_ Gaemon's eyes narrowed. His mind's eye returned him to a night weeks ago, when he could have sworn he saw eyes regarding him from the flaming brazier in their quarters. _Perhaps she has watched me for some time_. A voice within him told him to deny the woman who stood before him, wreathed in flame and shadow. A stronger voice urged him to grant her request. _Without her, I may never see Baela again. The flames may also be able to show me events of great import; information that could turn the tide of the war_.

"I grant your request, Alys. I will allow you to take some of mine own blood, freely given."

Once more, a smile danced across the lips of the woman. She took his hand, and quickly ran a long nail across his palm. Blood welled forth, nearly black in the firelight. Unlacing her bodice, she pressed his palm on her swollen belly, and in that moment, he felt the child within her stir. The flames roared brightly, growing to nearly twice his own height before returning to their previous intensity. As he withdrew his hand, heat seared across where she had made the cut, sealing it and leaving only a faint scar.

"The blood of kings, freely given. The life of a child, saved." Finishing her proclamation, Alys Rivers sat before the flames, only inches from where they burned brightly. Beckoning for him to join her, she spoke.

"Join me, Gaemon Waters. I gave you my word that I would teach you, and there is much to learn. A pact made with blood and fire must be fulfilled."

He joined her at the foot of the flames. The heat washed over him in waves, its fiery embrace comforting and enthralling at the same time. He learned whilst the shadows danced.

* * *

The biting cold wrenched him out of his slumber. He awoke wrapped in the wolf pelt, but even its confines did little to shield him from the icy grip he now found himself in. Sitting up, he realized that he lay at the base of the great fireplace in Harrenhal's great hall. _So the events of the past night could not possibly have all been a dream._ He searched the cavernous chamber for signs of Alys Rivers, but could find none. The hearths were no longer lit, and the stones within them were cold, leaving no evidence of her presence in the night. _The others will likely be wondering where I am_. _I need to return to them._ He made his way out from the great hall, pushing aside it's great doors in order to exit. They protested mightily, but allowed him to pass. Walking between the massive towers, he realised with some surprise that it must have been after midday, given the position of the sun. Quickening his pace, he found both Maegor and Addam at the entrance to the tower that they had chosen to stay within. Judging by their faces, it was clear that they were relieved.

"We were considering splitting into groups to search the castle. Where in the _Seven Hells_ have you been?" Asked Maegor.

"I left last night to clear my head. I… ended up sleeping within Kingspyre Tower."

Each of them studied him for a moment before accepting his explanation, at least on the surface. Before they could press him for any further details, a familiar voice echoed amongst the cobblestones.

"Greetings, m'lords. I've brought ya proof of the Prin… begging ye pardon… the Kinslayer's death. My youngest fished this out o' the depths. The lad swore 'e pulled it from the bugger's 'ead." The peasant caught himself, clearly not wishing to appear disrespectful. "Anyways, the boy found 'im at the bottom o' the lake, still chained in atop 'is dragon. The fish 'ad begun to feed, but these should still serve as proof."

He offered Gaemon a bundle of items held within a threadbare blanket. He gingerly drew back the coverning, and had to refrain from exhaling in shock. Cradled in the blanket was a blade unmistakably crafted of Valyrian steel. Its blade bore the distinctive rippled appearance, and its hilt was wrapped with a black leather grip. Both the pommel and crossguard were golden, wrought in flame-like designs. A red gem sat within the crossguard, looking more akin to a flaming eye than a bauble. Next to the hilt of the blade lay an intricately crafted golden orb, within which sat a large sapphire. It was marred only slightly by a deep gash that ran along its side. _It appears that Aemond's false eye bears the mark of Dark Sister's kiss_. Wrapping the blade and the eye in the blanket once more, Gaemon turned to the fisherman.

"I cannot thank you enough for braving the cold waters of the God's Eye to bring us this proof. It appears we have been conclusively rid of the Kinslayer. You deserve a suitably appropriate reward."

Gaemon thought for a moment, before reaching in the leather pouch that still hung around his neck. As he grabbed the golden dragon, he hesitated but for a moment. In his mind's eye, he could still see the scenario he'd spent his whole life picturing. As a boy, he'd dreamt excitedly about presenting the coin to his father, and finally getting the recognition he craved. Without any further delay, he withdrew the coin and placed it in the fisherman's hand. The man's eyes widened, and he bowed as deeply as he could in thanks. As he scrambled off, undoubtedly excited to show the other members of his group, Addam began to speak.

"I suppose I ought to tell the others what has just fallen into our lap, thanks to an intrepid fisherman and his son." After he'd entered the tower, Gaemon could feel Maegor watching him, surprise written on his face.

"I did not expect you to ever part with that coin, Gaemon."

Gaemon sighed. "I never expected to part with it either." Pausing, he turned to face his friend. "Alas, it felt fitting. I needed to let it go."

Maegor, seemingly understanding, nodded silently. Without another word, they turned to enter the keep.


	27. Gyles III

**Gyles III**

Throughout all his life, Gyles had never known such cold. It was a bitter and tireless thing, sinking its teeth through armor, clothing, and skin, until it settled into one's bones. _Is it possible for shivers to jostle a man from the saddle?_ Gyles wasn't certain, but he was confident that if it had not happened before, he was soon to be the first example of such a phenomenon.

The snowfall had been light, and the party had so far been fortunate to not have it impede their journey. The snowfall would disappear as quickly as it began, and it had yet to begin accumulating on the ground. Instead the ground was merely hard and cold, covered in dead yellow and brown grasses, the last vestiges of a summer long past. Gyles had never seen anything like it before in all his years in Dorne. The tallest peaks of the Red Mountains were covered in snow, but Gyles had never touched it, nor watched flakes of it lazily descend from the sky.

What struck Gyles the most about the snowfall was its silence. The coming of winter was not heralded by thunder like a summer storm, nor howling winds. Nay, winter came with a whisper, as it spread its cold tendrils across the land. The members of the party were largely garbed in the cloaks and capes they had worn when they rode out to fight the rioters in the streets of King's Landing days before. A scant lucky few had found and taken winter cloaks as they searched buildings near to the Iron Gate for supplies before fleeing the city. Gyles was not one of them. He shifted in Evenfall's saddle as he pulled his sand-colored silk cloak tighter about himself, but the sodden fabric provided his freezing body little succor.

If Ser Harmon of the Reeds was to be believed, the party had recently passed the town of Duskendale on its trek north. On old Ser Jarmen Follard's suggestion, the group had decided to ride for the town of Maidenpool. With luck, they would be able to make contact with the two dragon riders that remained to the Queen, her consort Prince Daemon and the Lady Nettles, one of the dragonseeds. Oddly, Ser Torrhen Manderly and Lady Mysaria had seemed hesitant about such a proposition. However, the northern knight and mistress of whispers eventually acquiesced to the will of the group when it became clear that they largely agreed with Follard's suggested course of action.

Without any means of knowing just how much of the roads and seats north of King's Landing the Greens controlled, the party did its best to avoid large thoroughfares like the Rosby Road and Kingsroad. Ser Harmon of the Reeds had proved an invaluable asset to the party in this regard. Born in Harrentown, the hedge knight knew the back roads and paths within the Riverlands and Crownlands like the back of his hand, and had allowed for the party to make its journey in relative secrecy. So far, no trouble had befallen them, but Gyles refused to let himself fall into any sense of complacency. _The last time I allowed myself to think I knew what the future held for me, I watched a city burn, nearly died, and lost my faithful squire and only friend._

Gyles did not currently ride among the main body of the party, however. He was scouting ahead of it, along with a lowborn Riverman named Tristifer of Oldstones, who had proven to be an expert tracker with sharp eyes and quick reflexes. The party had quickly learned to trust the man's "instincts", as he described them. So far, it had steered them clear of potential danger multiple times. _It is almost uncanny, the way the man seems able to sniff out danger._ Gyles frowned beneath his helm. _No, not sniff. It's as though he sees the danger long before it is even upon us, from a perch high amongst the clouds._

He had temporarily broken away from the quiet Riverman in order to chase down a deer that he spotted amongst the largely leafless trees. It was a small, emaciated creature, but it would still provide the party with meat that wasn't cold and salted for at least one night on their miserable journey north. Atop Evenfall, Gyles had eventually felled the beast with a shot from his recurve bow. _A difficult shot, even for a man of my talent,_ Gyles thought with a small amount of pride. It was the first time in a long while that he had felt any sense of pride in his actions. After draping the deer across Evenfall's hindquarters and securing it in place, he had begun to search for his fellow scout.

A short time later, as Gyles guided Evenfall through the sparse and desiccated remains of a thicket, he noticed that Tristifer of Oldstones had stopped his old grey stot at the thicket's edge. Guiding his sand steed up alongside the Riverman, Gyles peered through brittle thorny tangles of brush to a small clearing that lay not far beyond. It took but a moment for Gyles to see what the Riverman next to him was regarding.

A small group of people in tattered rags huddled around a campfire, shivering in the bitingly cold winter air. A dull orange glow illuminated some of their faces, and it seemed as though the people leaned so close to the flame that they were in danger of being consumed by it. Tired, gaunt faces stared expressionlessly into the flames. The people around the fire were pale and emaciated, and the skin seemed to hang off their bones as loosely as their grey discolored rags did. _Like tiny grey moths flitting about the flame of a torch_.

After a moment, Gyles realized that they were all chewing on a meager meal of charred meat, ripping it in greasy chunks from flame-blackened bone. The bones were unlike that of any animal Gyles had seen before, and he assumed that they must have resorted to slaughtering some sort of pack animal for sustenance. Gyles whispered as much to Tristifer of Oldstones. The man regarded him morosely for a moment, before shaking his head.

"Any pack animal these poor souls had would've been slaughtered for sustenance long ago," the free rider said quietly. "The meat they eat now is only the sort one could stomach if they were truly starving to death."

Gyles stared at the man in confusion for a moment, before the cold realization set in. _No, it can't be. Surely it can't._ Looking back to the small group huddled about the fire, he saw something else illuminated by the dim firelight. A short distance away from the group was a pile of discolored rags, much like the ones the people around the fire wore. These rags contained no person, however, and lay crumpled upon the brittle dead grass, stained with blood.

Revulsion washed over Gyles in such an intense wave that he jerked back as though he'd been struck. _Gods, no. By the Mother, how could they?_ Yanking back his visor, Gyles leaned over the side of his saddle and retched up his meager breakfast onto the forest floor. Shaking, he forced himself to regard the group huddled around the campfire once more. None of the people around the fire talked nor moved, and the fire reflected dimly off of dull eyes devoid of any sort of life or emotion. The only thing they did was eat, chewing slowly and silently. _These people died a long time ago, but they've yet to realize it._

Gyles couldn't bear to watch any longer. "Please, Tristifer," he began, his voice strained, "let us be gone from here." With an expression that was as disturbed as Gyles felt, Tristifer of Oldstones nodded his agreement. It was then that Gyles remembered the deer. Pulling it from where it had been draped across Evenfall's hindquarters, with Tristifer's help he heaved the dead creature beyond the twisted thorny confines of the thicket's brush into the clearing, in sight of the people around the fire. Without a single glance backward, Gyles and Tristifer both quickly mounted their horses and rode away into the gloom.

* * *

 _What am I doing here?_ It wasn't the first time that Gyles had found his mind consumed with doubt about his current situation. Feeding Evenfall another clump of dead grass from the palm of his hand, Gyles looked back from the picket line of horses towards the rest of the party. They had found enough kindling to start three campfires, and members of the party had begun to gather around each, eating what meager rations they had been allotted for the night's supper.

 _Some rations are better than none_ , Gyles thought gravely. Thoughts of the group of smallfolk that he and Tristifer of Oldstones had stumbled upon had plagued his mind the entire day. _Are we to end up like them too? Ser Torrhen says we must continue north to reach the Queen's allies, but does not know just how far that is._ _Our own supplies have begun to dwindle, and there is little food to be found from the surrounding countryside._

Shivering in the cold as the last bit of grey daylight seeped out of the darkening sky, Gyles grimaced. _It matters naught what I think. They listen to my scouting reports, and then act as though I don't exist_. Gyles' mailed fist clenched. He had tried to offer his thoughts on what the party's next actions should be, but it had become clear all too quickly that the advice of a Dornishman meant little and less to the soldiers and knights of the North, Vale, and Riverlands. _Even the Lady Mysaria exerts some influence over the party_. The members of the party had quickly coalesced around Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Willam Royce as its leaders, and none had questioned their decisions and orders. _Though it seems to me that Ser Willam largely follows whatever decisions Ser Torrhen makes._

Every night when Gyles found himself leaning against some log or stump, shivering beneath his damp silk cloak as he tried to sleep in the biting cold, he wondered if he might freeze to death while he slept. _If I were to die, would they even bother to bury me? Or would they simply take my supplies and horse and move on?_ Gyles thought he knew the answer to such a question, and such thoughts did nothing to improve his morale.

 _What am I doing here?_ The nagging thought had returned, an increasingly uncomfortable itch in the back of his mind that would not leave him. _The Queen I swore my sword to is imprisoned_. In truth, Gyles had no way of knowing if she still even drew breath. _Her war is not mine own. The fate and honor of House Yronwood does not depend upon which dragonlord sits that thrice-damned Iron Throne_. Gyles had fought and bled for no obvious reward, and now found himself trudging north to an uncertain fate.

 _I lost Mors for this useless conflict_. Gyles' squire had even less reason than him to get himself involved in the wars of the dragonlords. _Mors was no exile. He could have lived out the rest of his days in Dorne. He accompanied me to help me, and I repaid his devotion and kindness by getting him killed_. Gyles felt a burning anger beginning to grow in his gut. _These people couldn't care less about Mors and I. Mors died for them and I've bled for them, and still they treat me as more of an annoyance and possible threat than an ally._

 _Enough!_ Gyles glared in the direction of Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Willam Royce. There they sat around the largest of the three campfires, surrounded by the majority of the party's members. There they conversed and planned, preparing for the next day's journey. _I tire of this cold, and the disrespect. I swore no vow of fealty to Torrhen Manderly. Let them march north and freeze to death for all I care_. Gyles had made his decision. As soon as the members of the party settled in for the night, Gyles would mount Evenfall and ride for Duskendale. _I've enough coin left to me for passage across the Narrow Sea. I'll sign myself to a Free Company. At least there I'll be paid for my services and efforts, if nothing else._

Gyles nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice spoke up to his side. "The night will grow only colder out here alone with naught for company but shadows, Ser. Come, join us at the fire."

The knight standing before Gyles was an old man, with a long white beard that reached far down his breastplate. He had removed his helm. Only a few wisps of white hair remained atop his scalp, and his face was lined and wrinkled. He regarded Gyles with kind eyes. _Ser Jarmen Follard_ , Gyles realized. During his time in the Red Keep, it had not taken Gyles long to hear of the ancient knight. The man had a legendary reputation among the Red Keep's denizens, and had been a sworn knight of the Targaryen family for near on fifty years, as Gyles had heard.

Gyles considered the man's offer for a moment. _I suppose it would seem suspicious for me to refuse_. With a nod and a cordial enough grin, Gyles acquiesced. "Very well, Ser Jarmen," Gyles began, "I suppose a little warmth would be to my benefit."

Following the elderly knight, Gyles soon found himself sitting upon a damp tree stump before the smallest of the three fires that the party had started. Unsurprisingly, the fewest amount of men sat about it. Glancing around, Gyles recognized a few of the men around him. To Gyles' right, Ser Jarmen had taken a seat before the fire, and across from Gyles sat Tristifer of Oldstones.

To Gyles' left was a man-at-arms in a frayed black gambeson, with a red three-headed dragon patch sewn above his heart. The man-at-arms had removed his dented kettle helm, which sat between his feet. Beside Tristifer of Oldstones sat a large man in heavy iron plate. Tied about his shoulders was a large black bear pelt, and he possessed a wild bushy brown beard that was streaked with grey. He regarded Gyles with a friendly expression, and laughing eyes that seemed full of mirth.

"Come, friend, and join us at the fire," the man in the bear pelt rumbled. "Tis enough warmth to go 'round." Chuckling at his own attempt at a jape, the large knight continued. "I don't believe we've been properly acquainted. I am Ser Horton Cave, the Knight of the Deep."

When the knight extended his hand, Gyles returned his handshake, and nearly gasped in pain as the knight grasped his hand in a crushingly strong grip. Looking up, Gyles saw that the knight had been watching for a reaction, and began to roar with laughter at whatever expression he saw upon Gyles' face. "Well met!" the man laughed, "tis not many who can withstand my greeting!"

Trying not to let his feelings of annoyance show upon his face, Gyles nodded at the man, before beginning to speak. "The Deep? Forgive me, Ser, but I have not heard before of your House or seat."

The knight in the bear pelt gave Gyles a friendly smile. "Not many have," he began, "tis on Crackclaw Point. Many forget we Clawmen exist until they meet us on the field of battle. I assure you, friend, that they don't forget about us after that!" The knight once again roared with laughter. _Mayhaps the pelt he wears across his back is his own,_ Gyles mused, _for this knight surely roars like a bear._

Turning to the man-at-arms next to him, Gyles spoke. "I believe I have not yet made your acquaintance either."

Looking at Gyles with slightly surprised brown eyes, the man-at-arms quickly nodded and inclined his head in respect. "Seven blessings upon ye, Ser," the man-at-arms began, "I am called Joss Oat."

Smiling, Ser Jarmen Follard interjected. "You have not yet told us where you hail from, Ser. By your armor, however, I don't doubt that you call the sands of Dorne home."

Looking at his face, Gyles searched the knight's expression for the hint of hidden hostility that he had learned to expect from nearly every acquaintance he had made north of the Red Mountains. He was surprised to see that Ser Jarmen's face contained none, however. His kind smile was a genuine one.

It took Gyles a moment to realize he had not yet spoken, and he cleared his throat in slight embarrassment. "You are correct that I am from Dorne, Ser," Gyles began, "I am Ser Gyles Yronwood, of Yronwood castle. It lies at the Boneway's southern end."

Ser Jarmen nodded, still smiling. "Well met. It seems to me that all of us could do with a bit more of that Dornish sun right about now. I fear that my old bones may never feel warm again!" The aged knight chuckled, before it lapsed into a hacking cough. After several moments, Ser Jarmen spat out some phlegm and sat back up straight. "Forgive me. I caught a cough after the Prince Aegon threw me in the Black Cells, and it has never taken its leave of me."

At the mention of the Usurper, Joss Oat grunted in anger. "Would that we lot already had an army at our backs. Our Queen and her children need us, and yet we can do naught but ride further and further away from 'em."

With that sobering thought, Gyles and the other men sat around the fire in silence for several moments. Gyles wasn't sure what to say. _Much of this party is but the tiny remnant of the mounted column that Queen Rhaenyra sent out to bring order to her city_. Gyles frowned bitterly. _And what a fine job we did. Rode into a trap, and allowed the Queen and her family, as well as her keep, to be captured in our absence._ Gyles did not doubt that the other men around the fire were thinking much the same thing. None had the courage to say that plain truth out loud, however.

Staring morosely into the flames, Tristifer of Oldstones spoke up. "There was an army," he began. "Rivermen and Northmen, we had fought together from the war's start. The hosts of Jason Lannister and Criston Cole couldn't stand before us. To Tumbleton we had marched. Another battle there was to be. This time, it was the Usurper's supporters from the Reach. Outnumbered as we were, we remained confident as ever. 'Tis the last fight, boys,' we had told each other, hoping it to be true."

Tristifer sighed sadly, before continuing. "My village sits beneath the ruins of an ancient castle. Oldstones, it's called. Twas the seat of River Kings of old, House Mudd. They ruled 'afore the Andals came, and lost their realm after they arrived. But our village survived the Andals. Ours is old blood, and mine own ancestors claim descent from the Mudds. Mine was a quiet life 'afore the war began. I thought it boring, and wanted to claim myself glory, like my ancestors long 'afore me."

The free rider laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and it sounded more like a harsh cough than an expression of happiness and joy. "I convinced most o' the men and boys of the village to follow me to war. 'Come with me!' I said, 'the bards have need of more heroes to sing about.'" Tristifer shook his head. "And follow me they did. We were all fools. War ain't no song, and the lot of us learned that soon enough. Half of the men and boys that followed me died in the first fight at the Red Fork. Sharpened sticks and rusty dirks make for a poor weapon against knights in plate."

Taking a moment to compose himself, he continued after a brief pause, his voice thick with emotion. "We weren't soldiers. We were farmers, and innkeeps, and smiths. But we learned to be. It was that, or die. By the Fishfeed, tweren't naught but five o' us left. Beron the tanner took an arrow to the throat, and Jyck the smith's apprentice a spear to the gut. Me, Pate the innkeep's boy, and Sour Rob were all that remained. We survived the fight against Criston Cole and his men, but Sour Rob died o' camp fever on the road to Tumbleton."

Rubbing his nose, the man continued to speak, as he stared expressionlessly into the crackling flames of the fire. "When we made it to Tumbleton, Pate the innkeep's boy told me that he had a good feeling, as though things were 'bout to start changing soon." Tristifer smiled mirthlessly. "Tis a funny thing, that. Plenty of the village boys were tall, and strong. Pate was short and fat. Lots o' boys in the village spent their free time running about and wrestling. Pate baked bread and swept floors. Yet when war came, tweren't the tall and strong boys that survived. Twas Pate. He kept his wits about him, he learned, and he lived. I s'pose you never know who the true survivors are until you're knee deep in the mud and blood of the battlefield."

Tristifer looked up to regard the men around the fire. "One night, our leader, Ser Garibald Grey, approached us and told us he needed one o' us to ride to King's Landing, and ask for the Queen to send us some o' her dragonriders to help defend Tumbleton. Even in peace, a wise man stays wary on the roads. In wartime, traveling alone on the roads can easily mean death. None o' us wanted the task, so we drew straws o' hay to see which o' us would be making the journey. I drew the short straw, so I saddled up my horse and prepared to leave at first light that next morning."

The free rider looked at the ground and closed his eyes, before sighing and continuing his story. "Pate came to me that dawn, and wished me well on my journey. 'You'll make it, Tristifer,' he said to me. When I asked him how he could be sure, he looked me right in the eye as he answered. 'We've made it this far,' he said, 'and at least one o' us has to make it home in the end.'"

Letting out a ragged sigh, he continued: "I made it to King's Landing without a scratch, and the Queen sent some o' her dragonriders to defend Tumbleton. The lot of us know what happened then." Tristifer wiped at a single tear that ran down his dirt-stained cheek. "And to think that I thought Pate the lucky one out o' the two o' us."

Holding his hands out in front of himself, he examined them in the light of the fire. "Mayhaps I'm cursed," the free rider muttered. "I brought many o' the men and boys o' my village to fight in the war, and watched em' die, one by one. Mayhaps tis my punishment, to live with the guilt o' their deaths weighing heavy on my soul. I can never return to my village, not now, not alone. I promised them that their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers would return laden with riches and glory. I couldn't bear to face them now."

Tristifer fell silent, and there was naught but the sound of crackling flame in Gyles' ears for several moments. Gyles was stunned at the Riverman's tale. _I carry the guilt of Mors' death with me, yet this man bears the weight of the deaths of most of the menfolk of his village._ Gyles wondered what gave Tristifer the strength to keep fighting, keep moving on. _Mayhaps it isn't the strength to move on,_ Gyles thought. _Mayhaps all that is left for him is to run from the grief and pain_.

Ser Horton Cave cleared his throat, and Gyles looked to him along with the other men around the fire. For all the joviality and mirth that the Clawman had shown not too long before, he seemed much more subdued in disposition. "You're not the only man here that bears the guilt for leading good men to their deaths," the burly landed knight began. "I marched from Crackclaw Point with the Lords Crabb and Brune. Each of us had one hundred men at our backs."

He cracked his knuckles and sighed, breath misting in the winter air. "I lost men helping to retake Rook's Rest from the Greens, and even more trying to kill the Usurper's dragon. It was wounded, you see, and unable to fly. Lord Mooton wanted to kill it, and I volunteered to help him. We thought that we could finish it off with our numbers. What man wouldn't want to be known as a dragonslayer? Instead, the damned beast burned Lord Mooton, and a good amount of our men before we finally gave up."

Cave smiled sadly. "Those of us that remained still had fight left in us, however. We marched to King's Landing, and swore ourselves to the Queen's cause after she took the city. I suppose I thought that we would avenge our fallen by defeating the Queen's enemies in the field of battle, winning her the war. Instead, the last of my men died during those Gods-forsaken riots in the city."

Ser Horton sighed, his breath shaking the whiskers about his mouth. "Thoughts of home are what maintain my spirit, and give me the courage to fight on. I've a good wife, and strong sons who will carry on my legacy one day. And I have a daughter." He smiled wistfully, before patting a leather pouch on his belt. "Whenever I'm away, she writes me letters, you see. Within them are no matters of great import. She simply writes about home, and our family. When I return home, she gives them all to me, and I read them." Cave grinned. "They remind me of who and what I fight for. When I read them, I'm able to remember the man I was before I left. Reading them reminds me that I'm naught but a mortal man, and yet gives me the strength to see my journeys through to their end."

The pelt-clad knight let out a morose chuckle. "I suppose I will have plenty of reading to do when I finally get home. I've never been apart from my family and home for so long."

The men around the fire sat in silence for a while, considering Ser Horton's words. Eventually, Ser Jarmen Follard turned to regard Gyles with a friendly expression. "Tell me, Ser Gyles," the aged man began, "why did you swear your sword to the Queen?"

Gyles was unsure of how to answer him. _Twould not be knightly to tell him the truth. The desire of power and influence is not a particularly noble aim._ As he hesitated, Ser Jarmen chuckled softly as he examined Gyles' face. Ser Jarmen then closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. With a smile, he spoke. "Personally, I joined the court of King Jaehaerys, the first of his name, in the pursuit of comely maids."

Ser Jarmen laughed at Gyles' surprised expression. "Surprised? I was once a young man, as you are. The great beauty of the days of my youth was the Princess Viserra Targaryen. Truly, in all my years, I've never seen so great a beauty as her. I was a skilled young knight with ambition, and I knew I would never inherit my family's seat. The line of succession was a long one, and I was nearly at the end of it. So I rode for King's Landing, and with my skill at arms won myself a place in the King's retinue. In the days of the Old King, that was no small feat. The realm was at peace, and there were many skilled knights to go round. Only the best had the chance to serve at the King's court."

The ancient knight crossed his arms across his chest with a smile. "There was to be a large tourney to celebrate the King's nameday, and I had decided that it would be my chance to woo the Princess Viserra. Surely, I thought, winning such a grand tournament and crowning the Princess the Queen of Love and Beauty would win her heart. It did in all the stories, after all. So I trained and trained, and when I was nearly falling from the saddle with exhaustion, I trained even more. The day of the tourney finally arrived, and I felt I was ready. I was one of the court's newest additions, and desperately wanted to make my name known."

Tapping his mailed fingers on his knee, he seemed lost in memory. "The tourney had drawn in knights from all across the Realm. My first challengers fell before me with hardly any effort on my part. I unhorsed one hedge knight without even breaking a lance!" Ser Jarmen grinned. "It was only late in the tournament that all the training I had done saved me. I broke ten lances against Ser Robin Shaw of the Kingsguard before finally unhorsing him. After that joust, I had won the adoration of the common people in attendance. I was a young dashing knight from a minor Crownlands house, and the only challenger left who was not either a member of the Kingsguard or the Royal Family."

Ser Jarmen tapped a mailed finger to the side of his head for emphasis as he continued to speak. "I did not let such praise get to my head, however, and I stayed focused on my goal. I _was_ going to win, and I _was_ going to crown Princess Viserra the Queen of Love and Beauty. My next opponent was Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard, a most formidable opponent. Though I broke sixteen lances upon him and was nearly unhorsed twice, I managed to prevail. The Prince Aemon Targaryen had defeated his younger brother, the Prince Baelon, and was to be my final challenger." Ser Jarmen chuckled. "I was so focused on my goal that I barely took notice of all that I'd achieved. I was to ride against the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and yet all I could seemingly focus on was the Princess Viserra, sitting amongst her family in the Royal Box!"

By this point, Gyles and the other men about the fire had been completely enthralled by Ser Jarmen's tale. Members of the party at the other two fires had begun to overhear, and a few had walked over, standing behind Gyles and the others as Ser Jarmen continued to speak. "The Prince Aemon and I broke thirteen lances against each other. On the thirteenth lance, we both unseated t'other. Standing from the dust, we both drew our swords and began to duel amongst the lists, in order to determine the tourney's winner. To this day, I have ne'er faced a finer swordsman. I was later told that the Prince and I's song of steel lasted for near on ten minutes, neither one of us giving an inch of ground."

Ser Jarmen smiled wistfully. "I eventually forced the Prince to yield, but twas a close thing. The Prince accepted his defeat with grace, and congratulated me on my skill at arms. I thanked him with the utmost courtesy, but my eyes were set only upon the sole prize I coveted. The crowds roared my name, and the nobles clapped at the fine display of chivalry. The moment couldn't have been more perfect. With the Crown of Love and Beauty, I mounted my horse and approached the Royal Box. There the Princess Viserra sat, looking more a goddess than mortal woman. I was nearly shaking in my stirrups from the anticipation of it all. Twas there that I crowned her, waiting for my ambitions to finally succeed in a moment worthy of story and song."

The aged knight grimaced. "The Princess Viserra accepted the crown with all the grace and politeness expected of a Princess, but no more. She barely even looked at me. Twas then that I saw she had eyes only for the Prince Baelon, and not the landless knight of minor nobility before her. She accepted the crown as though it were some paltry gift. I realized then that even the possibility of myself crowning someone else had not ever crossed her mind. I was merely another handsome face bearing a crown of flowers for her to wear, as so, so many had done before."

The old man laughed bitterly. "I had achieved all that a man of my ambition should have wanted. I had made a name and reputation for myself, and sat atop a large enough pile of coin from all the ransomed steeds and armor of my opponents that I could've lived easily for the rest of my days. Instead, I was frustrated and discouraged. I wasted all of my coin on whores, gambling, and drinking. If I couldn't have my princess, I would have only the best women, wines, and foods that the city of King's Landing had to offer. My coin vanished as quickly as morning dew at sunrise."

Ser Jarmen closed his eyes and paused, before a smile came to his face. "It was as I was drinking away the last of my coin that the Prince Aemon found me, months after the tourney. He told me that he had been greatly impressed by my skill at arms, and valor. He offered to make me his sworn sword, and accompany him back to the island of Dragonstone. I could hardly refuse him, even if I had wanted to." Ser Jarmen paused. "I nearly did reject his offer. Somehow, I had it in my mind that if I stayed in the city just a little while longer, fought well in just one more tourney, that I would become worthy of the Princess Viserra. Alas, I did not stay. I accompanied the Prince Aemon back to Dragonstone as his sworn shield."

Though quite a crowd had gathered round by this point, Ser Jarmen smiled directly at Gyles as he continued to speak. "Twas on the island of Dragonstone that I became a man worthy of my knighthood. The Prince Aemon saw my potential, and altered the course of my life for the better. I learned there to temper my ambition with humility, and to take pride in my achievements, rather than do naught but yearn for more. Most importantly, however, the Prince taught me to have a care for others. I had spent all my years looking at people and wondering what it was they could do for me. Prince Aemon taught me to look upon others and think about what I could do for them."

Ser Jarmen smiled. "Tis only a callous man and a fool that will tell you that an act of kindness pays no amercement. You cannot make men love you, follow you, _die_ for you, with coin. That kind of loyalty is only bought by showing those who follow you that their best interests are also your own, and that you will sacrifice your own interests in favor of theirs. Prince Aemon knew these things. Methinks he always knew them. What an heir to the Realm the King Jaehaerys had!"

A dark frown enveloped Ser Jarmen's face. "Twas not long after the Prince's thirty-seventh nameday that dire news came to Dragonstone's shores. Myrish pirates had taken over the eastern half of the isle of Tarth, and Lord Tarth was in desperate need of assistance. The Prince agreed without hesitation to come to their aid. It was arranged that the Prince's goodson, Lord Corlys Velaryon, would sail his fleet to Tarth, and that Prince Aemon would offer aid from atop his dragon, Caraxes. As his sworn sword, I was to fly with the Prince to Tarth atop Caraxes."

He sighed and looked at his feet. "Before the Prince and I departed, his only child, the Princess Rhaenys, informed him that she was with child. Twas to be the Prince Aemon's first grandchild, and he was overjoyed at the news. Off we flew to Tarth, and all the Prince seemed able to talk about was how excited he was to hold his grandchild in his arms when he returned. A glorious battle with dastardly pirates, and the fame that it would win him, meant little and less to the Prince. His mind wasn't on the pirates, it was on his return home, to his beloved wife and daughter."

Ser Jarmen regarded the flames of the campfire mournfully. "To describe Lord Tarth as relieved by the Prince's arrival would be a gross understatement. The man nearly prostrated himself in thanks before the Prince when he landed Caraxes at Lord Tarth's encampment in the mountains of the island. I was at the Prince's side the entire time. As the Prince and Lord Tarth planned on how to rid the island of the Myrish pirates, I stayed alert, watching the surrounding forest for every moment, any possible sign of danger."

The light of the fire reflected brightly off of Ser Jarmen's eyes. "Twas evenfall, and Lord Tarth's men were starting fires, preparing for the night ahead. I had watched the forest for hours, and seen no sign of danger. According to Lord Tarth, the pirates were far down the mountainsides. I saw a man-at-arms struggling with some firewood, and stepped away from the Prince's side for but a moment in order to help the man with his burden. Moments later, I heard a crash, and panicked shouts. When I turned back, I saw the Prince laying there on the ground, a crossbow bolt through his neck."

Ser Jarmen's eyes welled with unshed tears, and he spoke as though in a trance. "I rushed to my Prince's side, and cradled him in my arms as he choked on his own blood. 'Please, my Prince, what can I do?' I begged him. The Prince had no answer. He merely thrashed in my grasp, gurgling and struggling to breathe. 'Please my Prince, you have to live!' I begged him. 'Think of your grandchild!' The Prince did not seem to hear me, and he ceased his struggling. 'Your grandchild!' I screamed at him, again and again. 'Your grandchild!'."

Tears ran freely down the old knight's cheeks, and the crowd that had gathered round to hear his tale was completely silent. "There was naught anyone could do. Prince Aemon died there, in the mountains of Tarth. He never saw his granddaughter, nor the grandson born after her. In the time after his death, I wanted to be punished for my failure. I begged the Prince's widow, the Lady Jocelyn, to release me in disgrace from her service. She didn't. The Lady Jocelyn and the Princess Rhaenys both told me that the Prince's death was no one's fault but that of the pirates."

Wiping some of the tears from his cheeks, he continued. "I wanted the Royal Family, Prince Aemon's family, to hate me as I much as I hated myself for his death. When Ser Ryam Redwyne died early in the reign of the King Viserys, the King offered me a white cloak of the Kingsguard. I refused it. How could I accept such a position? Would that he had offered me a blood-red cloak instead, so that all in the Realm would see my failure, and the blood of the Prince that stained my hands!"

Ser Jarmen closed his eyes. "If I had not left his side, the bolt would have struck and killed me instead. Every time some tragedy has befallen the Royal Family, and every time I see the devastation wrought by this war, some part of me wishes to wonder if it could not all have been prevented had I died in the mountains of Tarth instead."

The old knight opened his eyes then, and regarded all who had gathered around him while he told his tale. Gyles was surprised to see that the entire party was standing around their fire. Ser Torrhen Manderly, Ser Willam Royce, the Lady Mysaria, all stood in silence as Ser Jarmen spoke. "I have learned to ignore such thoughts, however. I did not die at Tarth. As much as it pained me, I eventually accepted the Prince's death for what it was, and that I could not have known to prevent it. All that I can do now is honor the Prince by living by the principles he taught me. What it means to be a good knight, and what it means to be a good man."

Ser Jarmen looked to the night sky above. "The Gods have seen fit to give me many years of life, so I do what I can with the time I've been given. I wasted too much time wallowing in self-pity. I spent so much time regretting the Prince's death that I didn't honor him by being the knight I should have been."

Looking from Tristifer of Oldstones, to Ser Horton Cave, and then to Gyles, he added: "Bearing the weight of others' deaths is the heaviest burden one can carry. The pain never goes away, but it lessens with time. If you live as long as I have, you'll realize there is naught you can do in the end but learn to forgive yourself, and let your actions henceforth honor those that you lost. It is either that, or go mad with guilt."

It did not take long after Ser Jarmen had finished speaking for the party to turn in for the night. Several watchers were posted to stand first vigil against possible danger. Throughout the camp, hardly any words were spoken. Leaning against a stump before the fire's dying embers, Gyles shivered in the cold. In the dark and shadow, he could barely make out the picket line of horses at the camp's edge.

The words he had heard spoken in the evening had given Gyles much to consider. He realized just how petty and hollow his previous achievements had been. _What does my knighthood mean to me?_ Until tonight, it had meant status, wooing women, outfighting opponents, and commanding respect. _How little that all truly means._ Honor wasn't winning archery contests or jousting. _Honor is accompanying an exiled fool in his misadventures north of the Boneway, when you could just as easily have never left home_.

Gyles Yronwood, an anointed knight and member of an illustrious House that traced its lineage to time immemorial, had been put thoroughly to shame by the example of his squire's unwavering faithfulness and loyalty. _I will not flee from this journey and the hardships that are surely ahead_. Gyles had sworn his sword to Queen Rhaenyra out of a lust for power, prestige, and influence.

Ever faithful, his squire Mors had joined him, fighting and dying for a cause in a war that neither he nor Gyles had any reason to be fighting for. _I will continue to lend my sword to this fight, whether I live to witness an end to the bloodshed, or die trying. Not for the dragonlords, not for myself, but for Mors. My honor is forfeit until I've seen this war through to its conclusion._

Gyles looked to the sky above, and the stars that shone in the blackness of night. He remembered his squire's last words. _Are these still the same stars that shine over Dorne?_ If they were, mayhaps they'd borne witness to his vow. He hoped they did.


	28. Hobert V

**Hobert V**

The Blackwater Rush was not an obstacle to be easily traversed. Hobert stood along its southern bank, and looked across it towards the distant city of King's Landing. Though he had not been quite sure of what to expect upon the army's approach to the city, _utter silence_ had not been one of the possibilities he'd considered.

Hobert had expected the distant clamor of clanging bells and blaring horns, something to herald the approach of a hostile force of troops in the city's immediate vicinity. Yet there was nothing. The army had begun its march from Tumbleton three days before. Unsure of what was awaiting them, they traveled slowly, cautiously moving along the Roseroad. For much of the journey, Hobert's eyes had been fixed on the horizon. He was certain that at any moment the three Dragonriders that had already destroyed so much of their forces would return to finish the task. _Twould be a cold and merciless fury,_ Hobert mused, _for we played a game of deception whilst acting the defeated supplicant_.

In order to end the dispute over who commanded the army, and to enforce order over its rapidly decreasing numbers, Lord Unwin Peake had thrown his support behind Hobert as the army's leader. _All that he asked of me was to serve as my right hand in the command of the men_. In name and appearance, the army remained that of one under Hightower leadership, but Hobert had delegated much of his responsibilities as leader to Lord Unwin. _He knows these matters far more than I do. Who am I to begrudge a man of experience the opportunity to ensure that what remains of our forces is in as fit a condition as possible?_

Of an army that had once numbered around twenty thousand, hardly more than three thousand remained. _Mostly knights, men-at-arms, and mercenaries who have no-one else to throw in their lot with so far from home._ Countless men had burned and died beneath Tumbleton's walls, and many more, largely peasant levies who had been pulled from their farms and fields to fight beneath their Lord's banner, had begun to desert in alarmingly large numbers afterwards. _And who is to stop them? Nearly every Lord and landed knight of this army burned alive in dragonflame._

A short distance away, Lord Unwin barked an order at several mercenaries. From what Hobert was able to overhear, they'd found a beached ferry not too far away up the Blackwater Rush's bank. _We will finally be able to cross_. Hobert, Lord Unwin, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler, Ser Roger Corne, and Lord Richard Rodden had decided that the best course of action was to continue their march to King's Landing. None of them had expected to reach the city walls alive, but as Lord Unwin had said earlier, twas better than to return home and bring the wrath of dragons down upon their families' seats.

Hobert shuddered as he imagined Oldtown burning as Bitterbridge and Tumbleton had. Such visions had plagued him as nightmares many times since the army had been burned. _The Starry Sept, Citadel, and Hightower alight with sorcerous green flame. Crumbling at their mighty foundations as their inhabitants screamed and died, charred flesh sloughing from flame-blackened bone_. Hobert had seen men die in such a way beneath the walls of Tumbleton. If the Gods were merciful, he should never wish to witness it again. All the same, he had expected such a fate the closer the army drew to King's Landing. The silence, however, remained deafening.

Marching towards an uncertain fate, Hobert had wished for the clarity of purpose that he had felt as the army had marched away from Oldtown's walls. At the beginning of the journey, the men of the army marched to ensure that King Aegon kept his rightful throne. _At Bitterbridge, it all changed_. The army had gotten its first real taste of blood and plunder, and had acquired an unquenchable thirst for it. _Lord Ormund, Ser Bryndon, and Prince Daeron wanted Bitterbridge sacked to avenge Prince Maelor. Lord Peake wanted vengeance for his son_. But what did men like Jon Roxton want to sack Bitterbridge for? _Men like Jon Roxton always hungered for the shedding of blood, and it wasn't until Bitterbridge that they were given free reign to do so_.

For all the men around him could speak of vengeance and righteous fury, Hobert could think of no excuse for the vile excesses that the Hightower army, _his_ army, had wrought upon the town of Tumbleton. _There was no cause, no justification. The army wanted to plunder, rape, and murder, and so they did._ Hobert frowned deeply. _Monstrous actions carried out by monstrous men_. But armies had leaders, and leaders were supposed to give orders. _The worst of the monsters stood by and lifted not a finger to stop their men from acting upon their darkest impulses_.

As a child, Hobert had heard tales of terrifying monsters, as all children did. Grumkins and snarks, and the Others with their ice spiders and armies of the dead. _Stories to scare us, and make us behave_. In the stories, these monsters were grotesque, with appearances as vile as their hearts and intentions. During the hellish march to King's Landing, Hobert had learned the truth. _Monsters can be dark and handsome, like Jon Roxton. They can be imperious and stern, like Lord Peake. And they can be proud and grand in appearance, like Lord Ormund._

Hobert looked at his reflection in the dark swirling waters of the Blackwater Rush. Tired eyes looked back at him from the rippling image on the water's surface, with large dark bags beneath them. The few grey wisps of hair still atop Hobert's scalp blew fitfully in the cold winter breeze, as though they wished to take flight. Though covered by a doublet and breastplate, Hobert's large belly still protruded visibly. _Can monsters be old, grey, and fat, as I am?_

Hobert's daughter Prudence, the wife of Ser Tyler, had been heavily pregnant with her fourth child as the army marched to King's Landing. _The child has likely been born by now_. Hobert had often dreamed of returning home when the war was over to see and hold his newest grandchild. _Hopeful wishes and dreams to forget the horrors I had seen, at least for a while_. The thought of seeing his grandchild now troubled Hobert. _Will the babe be delighted at the appearance of a loving grandfather, or weep in terror at the sight of a monster?_

Tears welled in Hobert's eyes. More than anything, Hobert wanted to believe that he was still a good man. _But how can I be?_ There were many times when Hobert had the chance to speak up against what he knew was wrong. _Instead, I was a coward, and watched the suffering of countless souls in silence. Mayhaps the dragonflame loosed upon us was justice, meted out in recompense for our grave sins_.

Yet Hobert still lived. _Are the Seven giving me a chance to repent, to try to find forgiveness?_ After all he'd seen, and all he'd abetted with his cowardice and silence, Hobert didn't know if it was possible. _All that is left for me is to try_. Forgiveness in the eyes of the Gods was not something that Hobert could ask or beg for. _It must be earned_.

At the sound of shouts, Hobert stopped his musings and looked up. A large wooden barge was floating down the Blackwater Rush, towards the crossing where the army waited. Hobert looked at the looming, silent expanse of King's Landing beyond the river. _It seems the journey has nearly reached its end._

* * *

The King's city was a ruin. Many buildings along its streets had been reduced to charred rubble, and those that still stood were stained with soot. Shops were abandoned, picked clean by looters. The army's entrance through the shattered King's Gate had been uncontested, with no garrison to speak of but the rotting corpses of slain Gold Cloaks about the inner entrance of the gate.

 _By the Gods_ , Hobert wondered in horror, _what has happened here?_ It seemed the war had finally reached King's Landing, but Hobert was baffled as to who had done the fighting. _Did Lord Borros already attack the city?_ If that was the case, however, then where were he and his men? No reasonable explanation seemed feasible in Hobert's mind.

Upon entering the city, Lord Unwin suggested that the wisest course of action would be to make haste for the Red Keep. "It will be easiest for us to ascertain our current situation there," the marcher lord had said, and Hobert had quickly agreed with him.

Hobert saw very few people in the streets, which was also a jarring experience. Cities as large as King's Landing or Oldtown should have been bustling at this time of day. Instead, the streets sat abandoned, and small shadowy groups of people in the distance scattered into side streets and wynds as they observed the army's approach. _It seems that no answers will be forthcoming from the city's populace,_ Hobert mused. _Those that live, at least_. Hobert grimaced at the sight of more rotting bodies left abandoned on the soot-stained cobblestones of the street known as the River Row, hugging the city's eastern wall. Corpses of the dead were the only thing that Hobert had found in abundance as the army rode towards the Red Keep.

When they reached the ruins of what had been Fishmonger's Square, Lord Unwin called for a halt, and drew his stallion up alongside Hobert. "Ser Hobert," he began, "I would suggest that you order the foot and mercenaries to secure this square and gate. We can then take the vanguard up to the Red Keep to continue our search for answers."

Hobert nodded at his words. "Yes, Lord Unwin, that seems wise." Turning to the assembled serjeants expectantly awaiting orders, Hobert awkwardly cleared his throat and called out orders for the foot and mercenaries to secure the Fishmonger's Square and River Gate. Leading a force of a little less than five hundred mounted knights in strength, as well as the army's remaining mercenary captains, Hobert steered his charger onto a curving street known as The Hook. Due to its narrowness and steep incline, the group was forced to make its ascent in a long thin line of mounted warriors.

As the walls of the Red Keep began to loom larger and larger in his vision, Hobert let out a sigh of relief. A black silk banner bearing the golden three-headed dragon of King Aegon was hanging from the outer walls of the Red Keep, sending a clear message as to which side of the conflict currently occupied it. Despite his relief, Hobert was still deeply perplexed. _Who took the Red Keep for King Aegon, and how? Has the King himself retaken his rightful city on dragonback?_

Reaching the cobbled square before the Red Keep's main gates, Hobert trotted up near to the closed bronze portcullis that guarded the main entrance to the keep through its huge curtain walls. Lord Unwin joined him, as well as Hobert's goodson Ser Tyler, Ser Jon Roxton, and Ser Roger Corne. At maester Aubrey's insistence, Lord Richard Rodden remained in a litter within a wagon bed at Fishmonger's Square, traveling as easily as possible until the wounds remaining from his recent amputation healed more completely.

After several moments, a voice called down suspiciously from atop the Red Keep's battlements. "Who goes there?" the voice shouted.

Hobert removed his greathelm before responding. "Ser Hobert, of House Hightower. I am in command of the forces gathered beneath Oldtown's walls to fight for King Aegon's rights." Even as he spoke those words, Hobert felt very odd saying them. _It should be Lord Ormund, or Ser Bryndon, saying those words. I was only supposed to command the baggage train_. The voice did not respond, and Hobert sat in silence, feeling increasingly nervous. _What is taking so long?_

Before Hobert's apprehension grew too great, a clattering rumble began as the bronze portcullis before him began to rise. Beyond it was a knight on foot in black and white, with a small group of Gold Cloaks arrayed behind him. The knight walked forward, and removed his helm. He had black hair that showed hints of greying, and brown eyes. Upon his black and white doublet was a patch displaying two swans, one black and one white.

The knight cleared his throat before speaking. "Well met, Ser Hobert. I am Ser Byron Swann, second son of the Lord of Stonehelm. I have been tasked with holding the battlements of the King's keep until reinforcements arrived." Ser Byron continued: "As soon as my men and I spotted you, we sent word to those inside the Keep. They will be arriving shortly." With a waving gesture, Ser Byron indicated the yard within the Red Keep's gate. "We can wait for them within the gate." As Ser Byron finished speaking, Lord Unwin and the other remaining landed knights of the army had ridden up to join Hobert as he rode into the yard inside the Red Keep's main bronze portcullis.

It did not take long for the aforementioned individuals to make their way into the yard. Hobert's cousin, the Queen Dowager Alicent, walked at the forefront, graceful and beautiful in a green silk dress. Behind her was an elderly bearded maester, as well as a man in well-made yet inconspicuous clothing. This final man dragged a clubfoot behind himself as he limped forward. The three were tailed by a group of men in dirty armor, whose hands hovered near their sword hilts as they coldly regarded Hobert and his companions.

At the sight of his kinswoman and widow of the former King, Hobert dismounted his charger and quickly knelt in the dust of the yard, despite the fact that the sudden strain on his tired joints made him wince. Behind him, Lord Unwin, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne had also dismounted and knelt.

Queen Alicent quickly made her way over to Hobert, and motioned for him and his companions to stand. "Please, stand," she began, "such petty formalities are unneeded from men who have so bravely and loyally fought for the true King's cause!"

Hobert and the others did as they were bid. Standing before his cousin, Hobert took notice of other details of her appearance that his aging eyes had previously overlooked. There were large bags beneath the Queen Dowager's eyes, and bruises and rashes about her wrists slightly visible beyond the long sleeves of her dress. _Only manacles would be able to leave such marks_. It seemed to Hobert that the Queen Dowager had only recently been released from her captivity.

Limping forward, the man with the clubfoot began to speak. "Greetings, my Lords," he began in a cool and quiet tone, "it is good to see that the forces mustered beneath the walls of Oldtown for the King's cause have finally reached his city." The man's eyes looked beyond Hobert to the knights in the square beyond him, before he continued speaking. "I don't believe I've made all of your acquaintances. I am Lord Larys Strong of Harrenhal." The crooked Lord looked over Hobert and his companions once more with an unreadable expression, and Hobert felt increasingly unnerved under the man's intense stare.

With slightly pursed lips, Lord Strong continued to speak. "Might I inquire of the whereabouts of Prince Daeron and the King's two new dragonriders? Ever since we received your letter, we have eagerly awaited the arrival of more dragons to add to the city's defence. I would have expected to see them in the sky as your army entered the city."

At Lord Strong's mention of Prince Daeron, Hobert took notice of a change in his cousin Alicent's demeanor. She remained poised and regal in stature, but her eyes seemed to convey equal amounts of fierce pride and worry. He felt his mouth dry out. _By the Seven._ Since entering the city, Lord Peake's false letter had completely slipped from Hobert's mind. Hobert looked at his cousin Alicent with dismay. _She expects her son to be returning to her alive and well, victorious in a battle against the pretender Rhaenyra's dragonriders. How do I even begin to explain the truth of it to her, that her youngest son is dead?_

As Hobert stood in stricken silence, Lord Unwin stepped forward. "The battle at Tumbleton occurred much differently than how our letter portrayed it," the grizzled marcher lord began, "and afterwards, we found it necessary to the King's cause to misinform his enemies of the state of our army in the battle's aftermath."

Lord Unwin paused for a moment, seemingly carefully considering his next words as he prepared to continue his explanation. Lord Larys Strong's expression remained unreadable, and the maester beside him appeared increasingly distraught. Queen Alicent's face had become a hard impassive mask, but her eyes continued to convey her worry. _Oh cos, I'm sorry._

* * *

To say the prevailing mood in the Red Keep was not a pleasant one would have been a gross understatement. The truth of the outcome of the clash of dragons above Tumbleton had not done anything to embolden those that held the King's city. It seemed to Hobert as though everyone within the Red Keep halfheartedly went about their business, keeping an ever-wary eye to the sky for the appearance of the pretender Rhaenyra's dragonriders.

According to Lord Larys, not long after the Red Keep had been taken, three dragons matching the description of Ser Gaemon, Ser Maegor, and Ser Addam Velaryon's mounts had appeared above the city, briefly circling above the Red Keep before disappearing northwest. _They would have had ample reason to suspect our treachery_. Hobert was confused as to why the dragonriders had not returned to burn what remained of the Hightower army.

The manner in which the Red Keep had been secured had also astounded Hobert. Shortly after he had settled into the Keep, Hobert and the other leaders of the Hightower army had met with Queen Alicent, Lord Strong, and Ser Byron Swann, to be informed of the circumstances of the retaking of the Red Keep.

When the pretender Rhaenyra had taken King's Landing, Lord Strong had smuggled the King and his remaining children into hiding. Lord Larys himself had remained in King's Landing, coordinating efforts to undermine Princess Rhaenyra's false rule. It was during his time in hiding that Lord Larys had come into contact with Ser Byron. The knight of the Stormlands had been a member of Lord Borros Baratheon's retinue during peacetime, before taking it upon himself to infiltrate King's Landing and slay Syrax to aid in the war effort against the Blacks.

According to Lord Larys, he had been considering whether or not to smuggle Ser Byron into the Red Keep to facilitate his attempt at dragon-slaying when news of the letter sent by the Green army from Tumbleton began to spread throughout the city. Using his informants to feed the flames of tensions within the city until they reached a fever pitch, Lord Strong had prepared a different mission for the knight of black and white. With the help of bags of gold carried to the Lion Gate by Ser Byron's squire in a commoner's disguise, the Gold Cloak serjeants stationed there had remembered their loyalties to the true King and agreed to lend Lord Larys their aid when an opportune chance arose.

Therefore, when riots against Princess Rhaenyra's misrule eventually began to spread through the city of King's Landing, the Lion Gate garrison killed their traitorous Captain and made haste to the Red Keep in a furious march through King's Landing's main thoroughfares, avoiding roving crowds of rioters as best as they could. At the same time, Lord Larys had shown Ser Byron, his squire, and several trusted sellswords a secret passage into the Red Keep.

The Pretender had dispatched much of her remaining castle garrison into the city in a desperate attempt to secure the city's gates, so Ser Byron and the others therefore had little trouble in making their way to the Red Keep's gate, slaying the guards posted at it, and opening the gate to the Lion Gate garrison waiting in the courtyard outside. With the added numbers, the daring group had successfully retaken the Red Keep for King Aegon.

The greatest triumph of the night, however, had been related to the prisoners that Ser Byron and the Gold Cloaks captured. When he had been told, Hobert could scarcely believe his ears. _The pretender Rhaenyra, her sons Aegon and Viserys, and the Lady Baela Targaryen._ In one night, the Greens had seized every claimant that the Blacks supported. _The Prince Daemon and his daughter Rhaena remain beyond our reach, but it matters not. Princess Rhaenyra and all of her children have fallen into our hands._ Additionally, Lord Corlys Velaryon had been captured and thrown into the Black Cells as well.

In doing so, however, a significant amount of blood had been spilled. While servants and other smallfolk in the Keep were largely spared, any individual within the Keep with known sympathies and loyalty towards the Princess Rhaenyra was put to the sword. "We weren't completely without mercy," Ser Byron had laughed, "we allowed the Pretender's lackwit fool to keep his head. That dwarf will never be a threat to anyone."

Hobert had been bothered by the fact that Prince Joffrey, Princess Rhaenyra's oldest remaining son, had been killed during the taking of the Keep. "Surely his death wasn't necessary?" Hobert had asked. _The lad was scarce more than a boy._

Ser Byron had merely scoffed in response. "I had no intention to kill the boy, but he challenged me with live steel. I had no choice but to meet the lad in combat, and killed him in the process. There's nothing more to it than that."

Hobert's cousin Alicent had a much more venomous response. Since learning of the Prince Daeron's true fate, she made no attempt to hide her hatred for her stepdaughter and her children. "A death that is not worth mourning, cousin Hobert," she had sneered, her eyes and tone cold, "for anyone with any common sense knew what that wretched boy was, even if my late husband forbade us all from speaking such truths aloud."

Neither Ser Byron's nor his cousin Alicent's responses had pleased Hobert, but he kept silent. _What good would my condemning their actions do? The poor lad is already dead._

Following a moment of awkward silence, Ser Byron continued to discuss the fall of the Red Keep. After the Red Keep had been secured, Gold Cloaks with crossbows and Ser Byron's squire with his longbow had clambered atop battlements and rooftops surrounding the courtyard in which the Princess Rhaenyra's dragon was kept. They opened fire upon the enraged beast, and had lost several men to its flames.

The large chains and tight confines of the courtyard prevented the dragon from taking flight, sealing its fate. Ser Byron's squire eventually killed Syrax by putting an arrow through its eye. "To think," Ser Byron had laughed ruefully, "that I had made it my mission to slay the beast, only for my squire to kill it instead!" Ser Byron shook his head. "An ignoble end for such a magnificent creature. I meant to slay it as Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield did in days of old! What a tale I would have had to tell!"

Ser Byron's missed attempt at glory aside, Hobert was glad to hear of the death of Syrax. _If that beast had lived and freed itself…_ Hobert shuddered at the thought. Because of Lord Peake's letter, Lord Larys had acted boldly under the assumption that he would soon be reinforced by three battle-tested dragonriders and a large army. _Instead, we arrive to King's Landing with no dragons or dragonriders, and little more than three thousand men_. Not an insignificant force, but not nearly enough to hold the city of King's Landing in its current state.

At Lord Peake's suggestion, Hobert had ordered the men of the army to begin rounding up what citizens remained in King's Landing, and put them to work mending the defenses damaged during the riots.

"Twould be a disaster if the Pretender Rhaenyra's forces are able to enter the city as we did, unobstructed and uncontested," the marcher lord had said, and Hobert quickly agreed with his advice and gave the orders.

Lord Larys had told them that he bade Grand Maester Orwyle to send ravens to Lord Borros Baratheon when the Keep was retaken, requesting that he make good on his vow of allegiance to King Aegon and march to reinforce King's Landing. The Lord of Storm's End had sent word in response, informing Lord Larys that he would march north in haste. Such news had been a relief to Hobert. _With the men of the Stormlands at our side, we will be able to hold the walls of the city against the Princess Rhaenyra's supporters. They surely wouldn't use their dragons against us when we hold the Princess and her children as hostages in the Black Cells._

Lord Larys had also informed them all that he had been receiving reports of King Aegon's condition from where he had been hidden. According to Lord Strong, King Aegon had been recovering well, and had even been miraculously reunited with his dragon, Sunfyre. "But where has he been hidden, Lord Strong?" Hobert had asked, relieved at the news.

At Hobert's question, a small smile had appeared on Lord Larys's face. "Dragonstone," was his simple response. "An abandoned fisherman's hut, only a stone's throw away from the citadel. A septon had recently made it available for transients."

Hobert was speechless at the brilliance of it all. _What better place to hide the King than Princess Rhaenyra's own base of power? It would have seemed a fool's errand to try to hide him there. And yet, they did._

Still smiling, Lord Strong had continued. "The King was able to find support among the populace of Driftmark and Dragonstone. My sources tell me that he has quite recently secured Dragonstone's castle himself atop Sunfyre, with the help of these leal men."

Ser Byron had laughed aloud, Lord Peake smiled, and Hobert sat back in his chair in amazement. Ser Jon Roxton had proposed a toast to the King that was seconded by Ser Tyler, and Ser Roger Corne had happily filled goblets of wine for all around the table. Queen Alicent, despite her grief for the Prince Daeron, smiled with fierce pride upon learning of her eldest son's triumph.

"I have sent word to Dragonstone," Lord Strong continued, "requesting that the King return to claim his city and rejoin the war effort." Lord Larys sipped his wine, an enigmatic smile gracing his features. "I should expect that he will be arriving quite soon."

* * *

The King arrived on a clear grey morn, heavy with the chill of winter. His brilliant golden dragon Sunfyre roared as it approached the city, the sound reverberating off of the walls of the Red Keep. He had sent Grand Maester Orwyle a raven ahead of his departure, informing him that he was flying from Dragonstone to King's Landing atop his dragon. Though Lord Corlys Velaryon was a hostage in the Black Cells, his bastard grandson Ser Alyn still sat within the walls of High Tide, maintaining his grandfather's blockade. None of the King's leal men on the island of Dragonstone would be able to join the King until the situation in the Narrow Sea was dealt with.

The King circled above the Keep atop his dragon thrice before descending into the castle's main yard, where Hobert and the other leading members of court awaited his arrival. As his golden dragon made its descent, Hobert couldn't help but notice how one of the dragon's pink membranous wings was bent awkwardly. Regardless, the magnificent beast still seemed capable of flight.

When Sunfyre landed in the courtyard, Hobert noticed that two men were chained on its back. The leading man wore simple unadorned black plate, while the second man was dressed in mottled iron plate. The second man unchained himself and slid from Sunfyre's back to the flagstones of the courtyard, before reaching up and helping the knight in black to gingerly climb to the ground from his dragon's back. The unmistakable sight of Blackfyre fastened about the rider's waist brought great joy to those assembled. Hobert still remembered the sight of the magnificent Valyrian steel blade from the times he had visited King's Landing many years before.

The knight in black plate removed his helm. Twas unmistakably King Aegon, the Second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. However, Hobert had not seen his liege in many years. When Hobert had last laid eyes upon him, King Aegon had been a vigorous and handsome prince in the spring of his youth. Though still a young man, King Aegon bore significant scars of war.

His visage was puffy, and the left half of his face was heavily scarred by the mark of dragonflame. Sullen violet eyes regarded Hobert and the others, and though his lips partially bore the mark of dragonflame, they still were twisted into a pout. Upon seeing his mother, however, the King smiled. He walked forward with a measured, shuffling gait, his spine bent slightly forward, as though he struggled to stand straight even without the weight of his armor. His left arm, though concealed beneath the black plate of his armor, dangled loosely at his side.

"Mother," the King said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached his arms forward to pull her into an embrace.

"My King," the Dowager Queen Alicent responded with a smile, returning his embrace. Standing on her toes, she kissed both of his cheeks, before stepping back.

Lord Larys stepped forward. "My King," he began evenly, "we are all overjoyed at your return, and to behold you in good health. Since your time on the isle of Dragonstone, much and more has occurred in your Realm. We must needs discuss these matters of great import as soon as possible."

Turning to regard his Master of Whispers, the King nodded gravely. "I thank you, Lord Larys, for the service you continue to offer my cause against my sister, the Pretender." Turning to regard the other knights and nobles assembled before him, the King continued to speak. "I see many new faces amongst the ranks of my supporters. I should like to be introduced to you all as soon as possible. My sister's false followers are many in number, and I will gladly accept the aid of all true men in ending her grasping ambitions for good and all."

* * *

A large pyre had been built in the center of the outer yard. It had been decided that Prince Daeron's remains should be burned as soon as possible, so that the Prince's journey to the Seven Heavens could begin without further delay. The Prince's corpse had been given over to the few Silent Sisters that could still be found within King's Landing for cleansing.

Hobert had been present when they had removed Prince Daeron's corpse from the wagon that it had been transported in. As soon as the black cloak with the golden three-headed dragon had been pulled away from his corpse, a stench unlike any he'd ever experienced had assailed Hobert's nostrils. His eyes had watered, and his stomach roiled, threatening to heave forth its contents.

Prince Daeron's grievous wounds had not improved in death. The rot of death had settled into the festering burns and blisters, which were many in number. When the Silent Sisters went to lift the Prince's body from the wagon bed, they'd had to _peel_ his corpse from it.

In a moment of morbid curiosity, Hobert had regarded the wagon bed after the corpse had been removed. It was slick with black, congealed blood, and other putrid and foul humours and liquids. Clutching a kerchief to his nose, Hobert had backed away from the distressing smells and sight.

After his body had been cleansed and prepared as well as it could be, King Aegon had ordered that the corpse of his brother be placed on a bier at the foot of the Iron Throne, to lay in respite for a night before his body was to be burned in the Valyrian funerary tradition.

Queen Alicent had refused to allow her son's corpse to be covered in a shroud while on display. "Let them all see him!" she had hissed. "Let our Lords and knights look upon him and see with their very eyes the cruel excesses the Pretender Rhaenyra has wrought upon her own blood, her half-brother!"

Hobert had stood vigil with the Queen Dowager Alicent and King Aegon over the Prince Daeron's corpse the night before the funeral, as their only other kin present in the Red Keep to do so. According to Grand Maester Orwyle, King Aegon's wife, the Queen Helaena, "was regrettably in no fit state to attend the vigil or funeral for her brother."

Hobert currently stood at the side of the Queen Dowager, watching as the King directed his dragon, Sunfyre, to light his younger brother's funerary pyre. The Royal Sept's septon, Eustace, spoke the funerary rites as the dragonflame quickly consumed the wood of the pyre and Prince Daeron. The King wept mournfully at the sight.

Something about the sight deeply bothered Hobert. _The Prince was grievously wounded by dragonflame, and died from those wounds._ Yet it was dragonflame that now burned his corpse to ash. _Would that the flames of Ser Addam's dragon had killed the Prince_ , Hobert thought soberly. The Prince had lingered on the brink of death for days after the fight above Tumbleton, vacillating between unimaginable pain and delirium.

"And so, the dearly beloved Prince Daeron returns to our Mother's loving embrace, having passed the Father's last judgement. His way to the afterlife is illuminated by the holy light of the Crone's lamp. The Warrior awaits him with a great host of the Holy at the Seventh Heaven, and the Smith will gladly open its gates to him, those that he wrought with his own divine hands. The Maiden sings sweetly of his piety and virtue as the Stranger relinquishes their hold on the Prince's soul for the last time." Closing his bejeweled copy of the _Seven Pointed Star_ , Septon Eustace stepped back. The only sound in the yard was the crackle of flame.

' _Is he there? Truly?'_ The voice called accusingly from the depths of Hobert's innermost thoughts. ' _Would the Smith open the gates of the Seventh Heaven to a man who burned women and children in the name of justice?'_ Hobert stood still, willing the horrid thoughts to stop plaguing his mind. ' _And what of you, old man?'_ The voice in Hobert's mind laughed wickedly. ' _Do you truly think the Father will find a coward worthy of joining the ranks of the Holy deceased in the Heavens?'_ Hobert had begun to tremble, and he squeezed his eyes shut. ' _We both know where you're going…'_ Hobert opened his eyes, continuing to shake. His eyes were filled with the sight of fire, and its heat made him perspire. The acrid scent of brimstone filled his nostrils.

* * *

Hobert was surprised when he received summons to the Throne Room the day after the Prince Daeron's funeral. Entering the grand hall through its massive bronze-and-oak doors, he stood for a moment at the foot of the long crimson carpet that ran along the length of the Throne Room to the base of the Iron Throne's dais. Torches in sconces lit the length of the hall. Though it was only midday, no light filtered through the tall glass windows behind the Iron Throne, and the entire Hall sat in shadow.

The King sat atop the Iron Throne in gilded black plate embossed with a golden dragon. The Conqueror's crown rested atop his head, and Blackfyre was unsheathed and resting on his lap, laid across his armored legs. At the base of the Iron Throne stood the King's newest member of the Kingsguard, Ser Marston Waters. Waters had accompanied the King from Dragonstone to the city atop Sunfyre, and had been granted his white cloak after their arrival. Apart from the King and his protector, the Throne Room was entirely vacant.

Walking along the crimson carpet's length, he approached his King atop his throne. When he finally reached the base of the dais, Hobert dropped to one knee and bowed his head in deference.

"Please, rise, Ser Hobert." Obeying his liege's command he stood, his eyes following the melted steps of the Iron Throne upwards towards the seated sovereign. For a moment, there was silence. As the torches flickered, different halves of King Aegon's face were displayed in prominence. In one moment, the handsome son and rightful heir of King Viserys looked down upon Hobert. Then the light would shift, and Hobert found himself looking upon a violet eye surrounded by a morass of scabbed, scarred flesh.

"Now that I have once again claimed my rightful seat, I must needs bring together a new Small Council, to replace the leal men I lost due to the injustices meted out by the Pretender." The King shifted slightly atop his throne. "In these times of strife and betrayal, I must needs be able to rely upon those that I can absolutely trust. Admittedly, I do not know you as well as other members of my mother's kin, but she has spoken highly of you. She says that you are a good and loyal man, steadfast and true, and have done naught in your long life to bring dishonor to House Hightower."

The King continued to speak, his voice echoing amongst the massive stone pillars lining the Throne Room. "As the war drags on, I can ill afford men of questionable loyalty serving at my side. You Ser, are a man that I believe I can fully trust and rely upon."

The King stood. "Ser Hobert of House Hightower, I name you my Hand of the King. May you serve myself and the Realm well, and keep the interests of both in your heart and mind in whatever counsel you provide."

Hobert was speechless as the King continued. "If you will, my Hand, make your way from hence to the Small Council chamber. I have several more men to appoint. There is much we must needs discuss."

Hobert knew that if he tried to speak, he would be utterly unable to. His mouth was dry, and his eyes wide. His mind was nearly blank with shock. He gave the King a deep bow, before turning and walking stiffly from the Great Hall. _By the Seven._

* * *

Hobert sat alone in the small council chamber, in a seat adjacent to the head of the table, where the King's chair sat unoccupied. The flames burning in several braziers throughout the room threw long shadows. Beyond the open door of the council chamber, Hobert could just barely make out the shadow of one of the Valyrian sphinxes flanking the doorway. The grand shadow was long, stretching until it became lost in the gloom of the long hallway beyond.

Hobert continued to sit in stunned silence. _Why me?_ He was an old, tired man. _The King needs a man with youth and vigor at his side_. If not strength and youth, then what did the King desire in his Hand? _Sage knowledge?_ Of that Hobert had little. In his youth, the Hightower's own maester had discouraged Hobert's father from encouraging his youngest son to attempt to join the Citadel's ranks. _What could the King possibly see in me? He can ill afford an incompetent Hand, especially at a time like this._

As Hobert continued to fret in silence, he became aware of the soft footfalls of slippered feet approaching the Council Chamber. Hobert watched as his cousin, the Queen Dowager Alicent, appeared out of the hallway's gloom, making her way into the Council Chamber. Walking along the side of the table, she gracefully sat in the chair directly across from Hobert.

Regarding him, cousin Alicent smiled kindly at Hobert before speaking. "Congratulations, cousin!" she began. "My son chose wisely in following my counsel to grant you the title of King's Hand."

Hobert looked at the Queen Dowager plaintively. "Why?" he croaked, feeling as though the anxieties and fears within himself were about to force his throat closed.

"Why?" the Queen Dowager smiled as she responded. "Why wouldn't I advise it? You are a leader of men. When our cousin Lord Ormund died, you were ready to take on the mantle of leadership and continue leading his army to the King's city. You and Lord Peake saved our cause with the false letter that you sent to the Pretender and her traitorous court. Without that letter, Lord Larys would have been unable to succeed in his plans to retake the keep, and in capturing the Pretender and her children." Cousin Alicent's face darkened as she mentioned the Princess Rhaenyra and her children.

After a moment, her face softened, and she took Hobert's hand in her own. "You also returned my son to me," she said softly. "So that he could be properly cremated, as his father was." The Queen Dowager had wept at the Prince Daeron's funeral the day before, and her eyes remained slightly bloodshot as she regarded Hobert.

His cousin's mention of the Prince Daeron caused Hobert to speak up. "I- I was with him at the end, cousin." Hobert squeezed Alicent's hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "When he passed, he- he wasn't afraid. His last thoughts were of flying his dragon, Tessarion. He was content."

Alicent regarded Hobert in silence for a moment, before nodding. "Truly, cousin," she began, "I am in your debt. I have no doubt that you will serve my son well." Standing, she walked around the head of the table to stand in front of Hobert. From one of the long, dagged sleeves of her silken dress, she revealed a golden chain, made of interlinked golden hands.

"Allow me," his cousin said with a smile. Leaning forward, she clasped the chain of golden hands around Hobert's neck. Hobert swallowed thickly as he felt the cold metal touch his neck. _I cannot be Hand. I will bring naught but ruination to the King's cause_.

Hobert nearly missed cousin Alicent's words as she returned to her seat. "Please, cousin Hobert," she said kindly, "do not hesitate to request my aid in your duties as Hand if you should have need of it." She smiled at him. "After all, my father served as Hand to two Kings."

She sat gracefully in her chair. "Though I am only a woman, and no longer Queen, I should like to think that I would be able to offer some small amount of sage advice, should you have need of it."

Hobert nodded eagerly, practically falling out of his seat as he leaned forward in desperation. "Please, cousin," he practically gasped with relief, "I will accept any and all of your counsel. In truth, I fear I will not be an adequate Hand to our King."

The Queen Dowager smiled thinly at Hobert, and her eyes glittered in the light given off by the braziers. "Nonsense, cousin," she began. "The wisest of men know that there is no shame in relying on the counsel of trusted allies." Her smile was sharp as steel. "And make no mistake, cos. I am your ally. You can always rely on me to give you the best counsel that I can provide. If you heed my words, I promise you that we will forge the Realm anew."

* * *

With the initial formalities concluded, the first meeting of the King's new Small Council truly began. King Aegon sat at the head of the table, with Hobert at his immediate right, and the Queen Dowager Alicent at his immediate left. His new appointees had also taken places at seats further along the table. Beside cousin Alicent sat Lord Unwin Peake, the King's new Master of Laws. Beside Lord Unwin sat Ser Jon Roxton, as the recently-appointed King's Justice. Beside Hobert sat Lord Larys Strong as Master of Whispers, and Grand Maester Orwyle sat on the other side of Lord Strong.

Absent from the table was the King's chosen Master of Coin, Ser Tyland Lannister. As the man was still recovering from the cruel excesses inflicted upon him by the Pretender's torturers, he had begged the King's leave to remain in convalescence.

Hobert had poured himself a goblet of Arbor Gold, and sipped from it as each member of the council settled into their seats.

The King had not yet chosen a Master of Ships, which Lord Unwin casually pointed out. "All in good time, my Lord," cousin Alicent stated in a cool tone. "There is a far more important matter that we must needs attend to."

Frowning, the King poured himself a goblet of Arbor Red before taking a deep drink. As he lowered the goblet, the wine left behind on his scarred upper lip glistened like blood. He sat in silence for a moment, and the frown on his face deepened into a scowl.

"My half-sister, the Pretender," the King eventually grated out. "Thanks to Lord Strong, she and her wretched spawn have fallen into our hands." The King took another long drink. "The price for her treasons will be steep. She has torn my Realm asunder with her folly."

The King clenched his scarred left fist, the scabs twisting and contorting with the movement. "She has made herself a kinslayer, not by her own hand, but in deed. The blood of my sons stains her hands."

The King drank deeply from his goblet, and upon emptying it, he slammed it angrily upon the tabletop. "She sent her lowborn, bastard dragonriders to slay my brother. Like footpads in the night. A royal Prince, and her own half-brother!"

The King's face was contorted with rage. "I want her dead. With the Pretender gone, the false Lords that supported her will have no choice but to bend the knee. I hold all of her heirs hostage. Their cause died the moment this keep fell to Lord Strong's men."

Hobert and the other council members sat in silence at the King's words. _The Pretender must needs die_ , Hobert thought sadly. _This war will never end until she has died for her treason_.

The King smiled. It was a dark and cruel smile, made all the more grotesque by the deep burn scars he bore on his face. "I will send a message to the Lords of my Realm with her execution. A death by the sword is too clean, too _kind_ for the likes of my half-sister. I mean to make the manner of her death serve as a warning to all the traitors that yet remain in my Realm."

Hobert took a deep sip of his Arbor Gold as apprehension began to roil in his gut. He had expected the Pretender to be beheaded for her treason, as was the customary form of execution for all traitors of gentle birth. _What does the King mean to do to her?_

Hobert's question was answered a moment later as the King continued speaking. "I will feed the Pretender to Sunfyre, tomorrow morn." The King said. "The Pretender, that maester of hers, and any Lord or knight that we captured along with her. Only then will the Realm know how I will punish traitors forthwith."

The King smiled grimly as he finished speaking, allowing his Council to think a moment on his words. _No. No, this can't be._ Hobert felt as though he'd been plunged into icy water. _This is all wrong._ With a cold smile, the Queen Dowager Alicent reached across the table and clutched the King's scarred hand with her own. Lord Peake nodded, a neutral expression across his features. A wicked smile had spread across Jon Roxton's face. An unreadable expression had settled across Lord Larys' visage, and Grand Maester Orwyle sat in silence, refusing to meet the eyes of any around the table.

 _It isn't right_. With a shaking hand, Hobert raised his goblet to his lips. His mouth had become so, so dry. The Arbor Gold was an exquisite vintage, yet it tasted bitter and sour on Hobert's tongue. _She is still a Princess, and the King's half-sister besides. This is wrong._

Closing his eyes, Hobert began to silently pray. _O Crone, I beg of you. Let them see the folly in such a decision, in such cruelty and excess_.

If Hobert had been hoping for an answer to his prayer, he was to be gravely disappointed. "Executions require witnesses," the King spoke quietly, a cruel smile on his face. "I do not mean to kill my half-sister's whelps. Let them witness the fate of their mother." The cruel smile remained on the King's face, even as he practically shook with rage. "Let them watch my Sunfyre eat their accursed mother. Twill be their punishment, to finally share in the wretched misery that the Pretender Rhaenyra has wrought upon our House!"

Hobert could scarcely breathe. A deep, gnawing pain throbbed within his chest. _This is wrong. No, it is more than wrong. It is evil._

Hobert had grieved at the news of the deaths of the Princes Jaehaerys and Maelor. Two innocent boys, both killed in some of the cruelest fashions imaginable. Children that were made to suffer for the injustices of their elders. Hobert found that he now grieved for the Pretender's children as well.

Young boys, as the Princes Jaehaerys and Maelor were, blameless for the folly of their mother. _And yet the King will see them suffer all the same._ Hobert took another deep sip of his Arbor Gold. The liquid was tasteless on his tongue. In the depths of his mind, he could hear the screams of the denizens of Bitterbridge and Tumbleton. _Have we not destroyed our legacy enough? Why must we poison the existences of those who will live and rule after us with our actions?_

With a cruel smile, Jon Roxton voiced his support for the King's plan. As the newly-made King's Justice, the details of such an execution would technically fall beneath his jurisdiction. The Queen Dowager Alicent still had a vicious smile upon her face, and all others around the table remained silent.

 _Someone has to say something! Such a course of action cannot be allowed._ Shaking in his chair, Hobert hoped against hope to hear words of dissent as he continued to drink. Instead, there was naught but silence.

 _I have to say something._ Hobert went to take another desperate gulp of Arbor Gold, and saw that his goblet was empty. _I'm the King's Hand, his chief advisor._ He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. _Speak, you coward!_ Despite everything, Hobert still found himself robbed of his own voice. _Speak, you vile, sniveling, pathetic coward!_ The King looked as though he was about to call an end to the meeting, pleased at both the voiced as well as tacit approval for his planned execution.

Shadows danced in the corners of Hobert's vision. _Do I not still wish to find forgiveness? To believe that the Seven have let me continue to live for a reason? I must speak! If not for my own redemption, I must speak for the children._ Hobert hadn't been able to save the Princes Jaehaerys and Maelor, but a chance remained to save the Pretender's children from the cruelties the King and his council intended for them. _Are you a man or a monster?_ Hobert took in a ragged breath. _Speak._

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." All eyes around the table turned to regard Hobert as he took a shaking breath and continued to speak. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent…"

With an annoyed expression, Jon Roxton spoke up, interrupting Hobert. "What are you prattling on about, Ser Hobert?" The other individuals around the table all looked at Hobert with expressions ranging from annoyance, to confusion, to sudden interest.

In an instant, the fear was gone from Hobert. It was replaced by a sudden burning rage. All the horror, anguish, and fear that Hobert had felt since leaving Oldtown had turned into kindling for the white-hot fury he now felt.

Hobert stood violently, with such force that his chair clattered backwards to the floor. With all the strength he could muster, Hobert threw his goblet across the room. It bounced off the wall with a discordant clang before rolling along the stone floor.

"Do those words mean absolutely NOTHING to you?!" Hobert seethed. He glared balefully at Roxton, Lord Peake, and finally the King himself. "Not a single one of us was made into a knight until we had spoken those words, along with the rest of the HOLY vow of knighthood!"

Bracing himself against the table, Hobert took a heaving breath. It seemed that he could do naught but continue to shout. "You all swore to abide by those vows, in the eyes of the Seven! For too long, I have stood by and watched in silence as these self-same vows were broken, again and again! I tell you now, I will damn myself to the SEVENTH HELL if I stand by and watch them be so egregiously broken again!"

Hobert slammed his fist so hard against the table that the pitcher of Arbor Gold next to his fist tipped over and spilled. "I beg of you all, remember your vows now! The Seven Pointed Star teaches us that we are all imperfect creatures, prone to straying and sin. We have failed before, and we will likely fall short again. But if we willingly ignore our vows now, when they are so obviously being broken, I can say with the utmost confidence and assurance that we are no true knights, no true MEN, at all!"

Gasping for breath, Hobert stopped speaking. Aside from his heaving breaths, the room was utterly silent. Jon Roxton's face was purple with rage, and Grand Maester Orwyle merely stared at Hobert in stunned silence. Lord Strong watched him with an unreadable expression, and Lord Peake regarded him with what seemed equal measures shock and grudging respect. The Queen Dowager Alicent's eyes bored into him with a flickering fury, and King Aegon looked up at him sullenly, a scowl prominent on his face.

"My King," Hobert rasped, "I do not question your decision to put an end to the Pretender Rhaenyra. What I ask of you, as your Hand, is to exact your justice as the laws of the land say you should. Not with your dragon in some barbaric spectacle, but with the headsman's block and sword."

Hobert sighed. "Do not force her sons to bear witness to her death. They are children, and blameless in their mother's crimes. Let us bring an end to this conflict of betrayal and cruelty with an act of true justice."

Hobert righted his chair and sat back in it. He was utterly exhausted. The King sat in silence, considering his words. Eventually, the King's voice grated out a response. "Your… counsel has merit, Ser Hobert. The Pretender will be put to death with the sword. As a token of my gratitude for all you have done for my cause, Ser Hobert, I will grant you an additional boon. The Whore's whelps will not bear witness to her execution."

The King glared at Hobert. "The Pretender's spawn are children. You have the right of that. But I need not remind you that I had sons of my own, children that were cruelly murdered by the Pretender Rhaenyra and my vile uncle Daemon. Make no mistake, my Hand. Those boys are by no means blameless. And until the last sword raised for the cause of the Pretender has been lowered, one way or another, they are my prisoners to do with as I see fit, _however_ I see fit."

The King sighed. "You are all dismissed. I have no more need of your counsel today. We will convene at this time tomorrow, for there are still many matters of great import to discuss. However, I wish to make my orders clear. By this time tomorrow, I _will_ have the Pretender Rhaenyra's head on a spike."


	29. Veron IV

**Veron IV**

The rains that had persisted for so long outside of the Crag had mercifully desisted in their pestering the moment that Veron and his crew had put to sea. It had felt good to be on the waves once more, back into the watery grasp of the Drowned God. Their journey had only taken a few days, as the seas had calmed and offered little resistance to their small fleet's passage. It was early in the morn as their longships gracefully cut their course through the sheltered harbor of Fair Isle. In the distance, Faircastle's spires could be seen, its proud towers illuminated by the first rays of the sun rising to their backs.

The _Misery_ docked quickly, with several of its crew members jumping from its deck to the dock in order to finish the last tasks necessary to bring their journey to an end. Veron himself climbed gingerly onto the wooden pier, taking his first steps on land cautiously so as to allow himself time to adjust. Turning, he offered his hand to Eleyna, then Elissa, allowing them to join him on solid ground. Whilst he regretted leaving the wild joy of the open sea, it was clear that they were glad to be rid of it. Longships were designed to be sleek and mobile, but they offered little in the way of total shelter from the elements. Matters had been worsened when Eleyna had been struck by a violent bout of seasickness. Elissa had comforted her as she had spent the majority of the journey clutching the sides of the ship, occasionally leaning over to empty her stomach of what little she had forced down. Her brothers, seated nearby, had remained silent, obviously terrified. Veron had only ordered them shackled as they came into port. _The cold salt spray of the sea was punishment and humiliation enough for our defeated foes. They need only suffer the iron bonds on land._

He suspected that Eleyna and her brothers were the niece and nephews of the Lady of the Rock. If that were true, the boys would make for valuable hostages given their familial proximity to the Lannister line. _As for Eleyna… she will have to remain under the auspices of my… guardianship as it were._ Once the crew had fully disembarked (many of them carrying looted goods), they began to make their way through Fair Isle's dockside district, which was unusually subdued for a seaport. Many of its denizens cast sullen, hateful glances at them as they passed. _Even though they appear to have been humbled by our conquest, they still outnumber us by a considerable margin. Our ways of Iron have only stoked the flames._ The lack of longships about the Isle was troublesome as well. It appeared that Dalton had given his captains leave to begin reaving independently. While that would have undoubtedly been a popular decision, it left them exposed to an enemy attack. _Our fleet could be reaving as far south as the Shields for all I know_ , he thought to himself grimly. _To cast our net so widely will leave openings. While their ships may have been burned in harbor, the reach of the West is long, and its purse nearly bottomless. We should not be overly confident whilst our enemies still have opportunities for retaliation. If we spread ourselves too thin, it may not even be a Lannister blade that fells us._ He cast another glance at the townspeople milling about around them. _We could very well be brought low by the pitchfork, or the filleting knife._

He resolved to speak with Dalton as quickly as possible about these matters. Turning to the docks below, he watched as other longships were brought in, their crews discharging and following his own through the town. Hilmar Drumm's men followed closely, as did Torgon's crew. _Torgon…_ the very name brought excitement and apprehension in equal parts. While it had been an incredible weight lifted from his shoulders, the ramifications and potential of these new feelings did little to calm him. _We must needs watch our every step… and keep one eye looking over our shoulders._ Before their shared moment, Veron hadn't ever completely come to terms with his own desires and feelings. He still was unsure how to process them. _It isn't as though any of our songs or shanties provide instruction in these matters._ He doubted that many Ironborn would even consider it possible for a man to desire another man, let alone desire a connection beyond brotherly love or comradery. He had resolved to take matters slowly. _I have no illusions regarding the danger. Dalton would order my head struck off, even if he only heard rumors. The Red Kraken would suffer no sword swallower to besmirch his growing legend, and the threat of being labeled a kinslayer would give him no pause._ The thought of Dalton's reaction to such damaging information being brought forward did bring a slight smile to his lips. _In some ways, it is nearly perfect. Every bit of his story matches those of the Driftwood Kings of old… almost every bit of it._ A firm hand upon his shoulder tore him away from his ruminations. The hand, gnarled and three-fingered, belonged to Robett, his helmsman.

"Pardon, Lord Veron. We've received summons from your Lord brother. He demands you attend him within Faircastle. He is supposedly eager to hear of your exploits."

While there was little to suggest disbelief in his voice, Veron could detect subtle signs of Robett's unease. It was an unease felt by many of his crew in the presence of his brother. Robett had served his family for years, filling the role of trusted helmsman to Veron's father, the previous Lord Greyjoy. His decision to serve aboard Veron's _Misery_ had been the cause of one of the few rows between the two brothers previously. Dalton had taken it as a slight that his father's trusted right hand would not serve the eldest son. Ever since, Robett had remained fiercely loyal to Veron, and skeptical of his brother's intentions. While the years had wreaked havoc on his body, his wits remained sharp. And those very wits seemed to anticipate trouble.

Patting the aging reaver on the shoulder, Veron attempted to disabuse him of the notion. Privately however, he harbored thoughts that the old man might indeed be correct. _Dalton and I did not part on the best of terms. He has never been one to suffer rivals to his grandeur. Even if that is not my intent, my very existence, and success, is unwelcome. Dalton always appreciated having a stalwart shadow, but will he enjoy a successful brother?_ Steeling himself, he gave orders for his men to continue their march to Faircastle.

* * *

The great hall of Faircastle had come to resemble an armory. Implements of war were held in racks, barrels, and displayed on tables throughout. Additionally, spoils of war were heaped high, including tapestries, bolts of cloth, golden and silver goblets, jewelry, and more. He found Dalton where he knew he would, sitting upon the seat which had been the seat of various Farmans for centuries. He was toying with an exquisitely crafted ship model which possessed four masts, a deep hull, and a broader beam than would be found upon most vessels. Hearing Veron's approach, his brother carefully set his prize aside, a wicked grin spreading across his features. His deep black eyes smiled along with him, yet held little warmth.

"Veron, my only brother, I welcome you into my hall. I have heard much of your exploits, but I could not countenance hearing any more of them from my captains. I needed to hear of your great triumph in your own words."

Veron paused. "I doubt that I could provide you with any further details than you have already heard, brother. The Crag is ours, as you commanded. I left it in the possession of Captain Melwick Myre, with instructions to hold it as a base for further expansion along the coasts."

Dalton's grin did not fade, but instead became wider. " _Dear brother,_ you do yourself no credit. Your actions were a good deal more impressive than that! Taking the Crag was just the beginning. I have been told that throughout the entire campaign you lost no more than thirty reavers, most due to illness brought about by the uncompromising deluge. Furthermore, I know of Captain Myre. As I recall, he has served you most steadfastly in the past. Lastly, and _most importantly,_ I hear you have taken a daughter of House Westerling into your bed. Oh! But how the _Lady of the Rock_ must hate you for that!" A cold, rasping laugh escaped from Dalton's lips. "When I sent you to subdue that seat, I had no idea that you would do so exceedingly well. You're well on your way to building a formidable reputation of your own. A man that formidable would be a most terrifying foe for our enemies, I would think. A man like that could lead the Iron Fleet."

With that, he rose from his seat, his armored footfalls sounding throughout the hall as he approached. It was only then Veron began to heed the various captains throughout the chamber. Many were clearly eyeing the situation with great interest. He refrained from allowing his eyes to narrow in suspicion. _Dalton's men… the whole lot of them_. He considered his brother's words, but found he had little patience for the challenge that they all too clearly represented.

" _Dear brother_ , the Iron Fleet already possesses a most formidable commander. I live to serve him, as my Lord and as my brother. I vanquished the Westerlings in your name, but they proved less formidable than I had hoped. Lord Jason Lannister has already crippled his lands by exhausting their reserves of fighting men. All that remain are old men, leading green boys. They were no threat to men of Iron."

His brother studied him for a moment, onyx eyes steady, boring deeply into his own. Veron did not falter, he _would not_ allow Dalton to humble him so publicly. _Maybe once, but no longer. I tire of this. My loyalty has never been in question_. The silence became icy, but only briefly, for after a moment his brother's grin returned.

"Truly, Veron, you are a different man. A brother I am most proud to claim! Your return is most favorably timed, as it were. We must needs decide on our next course of action."

With a black gauntleted hand, Dalton gestured towards a table near the center of the hall, upon which a great map had been rolled out. The map's edges had yellowed with age, but it bore the seal of King Loren I Lannister. Upon it the vast demesne of the Kingdom of the Rock was depicted, with its southern marches stretching to the Reach, and its eastern marches menaced by the now defunct Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers. Dalton, seeing him studying the map, sighed for effect.

"Before the arrival of the dragons, our power extended anywhere the waves crashed or the rivers flowed. The Hoares had subjugated an entire Kingdom, and had cowed their rivals into submission. None wished to face our kind in battle." Pausing, he scoffed. "But Aegon changed the rules of engagement. Great castles and stout warriors meant naught to him. In ridding us of the Hoares, he taught us a valuable lesson. Harren had bound himself to the Greenlands. By constructing his great seat, he forgot what made us truly strong, what made us truly _different._ By burning him and his sons, Aegon freed us once more. We were not meant to be land-bound lords of the Greenlanders, we were meant to subjugate them, to demand tribute, and most importantly, to rule the Sunset Seas. Our longships, and our ability to attack anywhere, at any time, is our greatest strength."

Men throughout the chamber nodded in accordance with his brother's words.

"I am sure many of you do not wish for me to subject you to the histories of our people. That task is for the Maesters. Such things are of import. Harren's greed and his stupidity destroyed his line root and stem. I do not mean for mine to face the same fate. Instead, we will use this war between dragons as an opportunity to bring about a return of the ways of our forefathers. We will once more subject the Sunset Sea to our domination and all who hear its tides will pay us tribute." Smiling sharply, he added: "and the most fortuitous part of this entire arrangement is that the Dragon Princess has begged us to do so. So long as we whet our blades with the blood of Westermen and Reachmen, we act according to her bidding." Pointing to Fair Isle, he concluded: "in order to fully restore the Old Way, we will need bases. We have Fair Isle, and whilst my brother seized the Crag, I conquered Kayce." Chuckling, he pointed to a torn and bloody banner draped across another table. Orange and black, it featured the sunbursts of House Kenning of Kayce. "I slew the Knight of Kayce and took his wife for my own. House Kenning would do well to remember its origins. I reminded them. If they still prove resistant, I will sire a new Lord for them, harder and stronger than those before, and free of Greenlander weakness."

Once more, he traced the shoreline of the Westerlands. "Fair Isle, the Crag, Kayce, all command the Sunset Sea. I mean to demand them as payment for our support. In time, the Shields will be returned to their rightful owners. With the right men under my command, even the Arbor itself will be made to bend the knee. These things and more I promise you, my Lords and Captains."

From the looks around the room, Veron could see that his brother had more than persuaded most of them. _There is merit to my brother's plan. But while we may have the strength to wrest these isles from the Greenlanders, I doubt we would keep them for long. Once the dragons stop tearing themselves to pieces, we will no longer be in a position to make demands. Aegon taught us that as well_.

"Conquering the isles and the coasts is one thing brother. Winning the peace is another. What news have we of the Queen and her brother?"

Dalton's glance held a dangerous edge to it. He did not like to be challenged, and certainly resented that Veron had spoken in front of the assembled captains.

"We have received little and less word of the Queen or her brothers. From the mouths of captured merchants, we've heard whispers that there was a great battle in the Northern Reach. Supposedly the fight was between riders in service to both the sister and the brother. Some say the sister's men proved superior, and others claim it was the brothers. We have, however, received word that Oldtown has put out a call for more swords. Most interestingly, they also are offering a great deal of coin to those skilled with the bow." A faint but hard smile danced upon his lips. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager that the Hightowers would have little need for bowmen of such skill if their king still ruled the skies."

Veron nodded. _That is fortunate news indeed. If the Queen's riders were indeed victorious, we would have little reason to fear that the Lady of the West might obtain the support of a dragonrider._

"It seems that the Drowned God has smiled upon us then, brother. If the Queen commands the skies, then we have little reason to cast our gaze amidst the clouds for enemies." He paused, knowing his brother would not be pleased with his next words. "What of our forces? How many swords do you still command?"

Dalton gripped the edges of the table. Had he not been wearing gauntlets, Veron suspected that his brother's knuckles would have grown white.

"So many questions, brother. I must have misremembered you whilst you were away. I could have sworn you were always the quieter of the two of us." Some of the men assembled snickered. Veron did not miss a sharp grin emanating from beneath Hilmar Drumm's scraggly beard. His eyes held no mirth, however. They were dark and promised vengeance. Veron spent little time meeting them.

"Since you are concerned with our numbers, allow me to remind you. We sailed from Pyke with ten thousand swords. In our conquests, I would wager that we've lost less than five hundred men. Disease has taken some, as is its wont. I estimate that we can still count on nearly nine thousand swords. More than enough to seize what we need to reassert our rule."

Veron resisted the urge to shake his head in annoyance. "I am pleased we still have adequate numbers for our conquests." He decided against raising the issue of the behavior of Fair Isle's smallfolk that he had seen earlier. His brother would likely dismiss them even if he raised the issue.

"Forgive my wordiness, brother, but one matter still must needs be addressed. Time. I fear we may not have enough time to seize all you propose before we are commanded to cease our assault. Even if the Queen does prevail, it seems unlikely that she will suffer our reaving once she sits securely atop her throne. In order to win the peace, we must already have everything we wish to keep in our possession. I fear that the war may be drawing to a close too quickly for that to be possible."

Dalton seemed almost surprised he had spoken up yet again. To his brother's credit, he offered no rebuke. While he didn't suffer challenges to his authority lightly, his mind was still sharp, sharp enough to recognize the veracity of Veron's concerns. His eyes narrowed, becoming keen slits of onyx. The Lord Reaper of Pyke was silent for a moment as he studied the map. Finally, he spoke.

"What would you propose, brother? I would hear your counsel."

The room grew quiet. Veron stepped forward, and he had to keep his hand from reflexively reaching for his sword hilt. He studied the map, as the eyes of the room studied him.

"As you've said, we have already established a commanding presence along the coasts of the West. So far, our enemies have proven utterly incapable of challenging our hold on what we've taken. As it stands, we still possess the strength to keep what we have seized. If we still hold it by the end of the war, I think it likely that we could demand Fair Isle and Kayce as rewards for our… support. I doubt that the Crag would be something the Lady of the Rock would be willing to part with."

Dalton sneered. "What that _woman_ wants is of no concern to us men of Iron. She skulks in her cave for fear of us. She has no right to demand anything from us."

Veron nodded. "She may have no right to demand something of us, but her prospective liege will. _If_ the Princess is victorious, she will want to rule a united realm. The Lannisters will need to be brought back into the fold for that to be possible. Frankly, if we demand too much, we will invite the dragon's wroth upon ourselves and undo all we've striven to gain. The key is demanding enough that we can reassert our power over the Sunset Sea, but not too much that the Princess decides we are too much trouble to parley with."

Dalton frowned. "I mislike entering into negotiations at all. It belies weakness. But your words carry a truth unto them, even if such truths are difficult to accept. But what of the Reach?"

Veron paused. "I do not believe that the Shields are within our grasp. If the Queen's forces have won a great victory in the Reach as you say, the war may be drawing to a close within a matter of weeks. If we haven't seized the islands by the time the Greenlanders agree to a peace, we will have overextended and bled ourselves for naught."

Dalton waited for him to finish before turning to the assembled captains. "My lords and captains, you have heard each of our words. But in the Iron Isles, it is said that every man who possesses a ship is a king unto himself. Far be it from me to rob you of your counsel or your rights as kings of the Sunset Sea. I ask you now to cast lots for each plan. The plan that receives greater endorsement will be the plan that is implemented. Firstly, my own. I promise you the Shields and the Arbor, and with them, dominion over the entire Sunset Sea! My brother promises you a _negotiated_ settlement, free from the fear of the dragon's wroth. Let those who support my proposal now say aye."

As a chorus of 'ayes' sounded across the room, Veron felt his heart sink. _He planned this. He suspected that I would oppose him, and wished to see me discredited in front of the fleet captains._ Despite his frustration, he was willing to admit it was a good plan. _He also made sure to allow most of the more reserved captains an opportunity to reave, in order to have his most fervent supporters present._

When Dalton asked for the 'ayes' for Verons plan, a sporadic response sounded. In the midst of the crowd, Veron was grateful to see that Torgon had thrown his support behind his proposal. _These men consider themselves men of iron, after all_. That thought brought a frown to his face. _Given enough heat, however, iron will melt._

* * *

Looking most pleased with himself, Dalton had invited Veron to spar at the conclusion of the meeting of the captains. Despite some misgivings, he had agreed. A few moments later, he had found himself in the courtyard of Faircastle across from his brother. The rain had transitioned into a light misting, chilling the air and causing their breaths to emanate fog-like from beneath their helms. Dalton had chosen to wear his best plate, and moisture dripped from his helm's golden tentacles. He looked as though he had just walked out from the depths of the sea. In his hand, he clutched Nightfall, its dark rippling valyrian steel blade bespeckled with small rivulets of rainwater that dripped gently to the cobblestones. Its moonstone pommel seemed to be an eye of its own, staring unblinkingly at him.

Veron drew his own blade, its length of castle-forged steel rasping as it exited its scabbard. _This must be the second part of his plan to discredit me. A victory at the meeting and a victory in the yard. At that point none will question his superiority._ He grimaced. _As if he needed to prove it. I was content in his shadow. His attempts to keep me there have only driven me further from its shade._ His hands tightened about his blade's hilt. He had refused a shield, knowing his brother's blade would have rendered it useless after a strike or two. While dangerous, he hoped that he could force a conclusion to the fight before any blood was drawn. Facing an opponent wielding Valyrian steel required a greater degree of aggression than was normally advisable, given that opting for the defensive was nearly completely ineffective unless possessed of a blade of Valyrian steel as well. _Dalton taught me that. I learned from him as he slew Nightfall's former owner._ As he adopted his stance, he promised himself that he would not lose this contest as well. _Dalton will not have the satisfaction of two victories today._

The scarred and grizzled master at arms motioned for them to begin, rainwater dripping from his long grey beard. They circled each other in the yard for a few moments, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Veron watched his brother, waiting for any tells that he planned to strike. When they were younger, his brother had always inhaled sharply before launching his attacks. Veron felt a twinge of emotion at the thought. _He was different, then. Still Dalton, but less grim. Less prone to suspecting a challenge from every leal man. Less drunk on his own legend. I miss that brother._

While he did not inhale sharply, a slight change in his footwork betrayed his oncoming attack. Within a split second, his brother exploded with motion, crossing the distance between them and opting for a downward strike. Veron's instincts, honed from years of confrontation, recognized the futility of meeting such a strike with his own blade. His brother need only strike his blade a few times to snap it with his own blade. Instead, Veron quickly sidestepped, allowing his brother's momentum to carry him forward an extra halfpace, his blade sparking as it cut a slight gash into the cobblestone. Nightfall possessed a long reach, and its slender blade concealed a wicked striking power, thanks to its composition.

Recovering within the blink of an eye, Dalton whirled from where he stood, letting his momentum carry his blade overhead into another downward slash. He guided it more carefully this time, however, and Veron was nearly caught upon the shoulder by its cold kiss. The third cut saw him forced to intercept it, with his own blade, and he grimaced beneath his helm as Nightfall bit into his own blade slightly. _Enough. He seeks to keep me on the backfoot until he destroys my weapon_. He twisted his sword within his grasp, wrenching it free, before bringing it in an upwards cut towards his brother's helm. He knew Dalton's instincts would be too honed to prompt him to fall back, but he did force him to take a half step back in order to avoid the swing. Veron had no intention of allowing him to resume the offensive, however. He pressed the attack, bringing his blade about for another savage strike, this time aimed at his brother's blindspot on the side of his helm. Nightfall rose to intercept, but Veron was able to redirect his sword just enough that the attack was diverted. While that forced his strike to miss, it did keep Dalton from launching an attack of his own while Veron opted for his most aggressive strategy. He smiled as he took two paces back, wrenching an axe from where it sat upon a table in the yard.

Dalton, realising he'd allowed for his brother to gain the initiative, pressed Veron hard. While he was able to sidestep his brother's first attack, he knew he needed to confront his second head on. He caught his brother's second powerful strike on his blade, wincing as Nightfall bit deeply into the steel. _The next time that they connect, I will be left with half a blade._ He had to act quickly. As Dalton opted for a lunging attack, Veron redirected it slightly, the Valyrian steel screeching as it passed along his steel edge. It was at that moment his axe came down in a savage arc. It struck his brother's helm with a screech. While the black steel was easily able to resist such a strike, the soft gold was not. The force of its blow sheared off one of the hanging tentacles, the rubies set within it glinting as it clattered to the cobblestones. His brother's eyes narrowed beneath their helm. His strike brought about a ferocious assault. While Veron considered himself talented, it would've taken the speed and reflexes of the Drowned God himself to fully dodge his brother's next assault.

Accepting the inevitable, Veron caught one of the strikes with his sword, and winced as he heard the steel snap. Left with a jagged blade that ended only a few inches above the hilt, he knew his time was up. When Dalton came at him again, he met the attack head-on, his pulse ringing loudly within the confines of his helm. The rain had increased, and Nightfall cut a glistening arc through the deluge. Veron caught the strike with the oak handle of his axe, slowing it enough that when it struck his shoulder it bit through steel, but not flesh and bone. His brother's eyes smiled coldly for a moment, relishing his victory. The joy drained quickly when he felt the jagged point of a broken blade poking his neck from where it had navigated between helm and gorget. For a moment, the only sound that Veron could hear was the rain as it struck his helm. Those who had gathered about the yard were silent, evidently waiting to see the reactions of both brothers. Veron met his brother's gaze with that of his own, and felt a chill run down his spine that had little to do with the cold of the rain. For under the helm of black steel and bloody gold, Dalton returned his gaze with a hatred that did not burn, but icily crept its way through his visor. Veron refused to look away, and they remained locked in a cold, deadly embrace until the impromptu master of arms stood alongside them. He made his presence known by placing a heavily muscled arm upon each of their shoulders, his hairy grey arms slick with rainwater.

"T'was a fine fight m'lords. On the field o' battle, you'd each have been the last thing the other'd have seen." Chortling somewhat nervously, he added: "luckily, the Drowned God saw fit to make you brothers, and not enemies."

Dalton, removing his helm, chuckled mirthlessly. "Tis most fortunate indeed, Ott." Turning his eyes to Veron, he added: "well-met, _brother_."

"Well met, Dalton."

Finally tearing his eyes away from his brother's, Veron stood as his opponent withdrew Nightfall. Casting a glance upon his shoulder, he was unsurprised to see that his brother's blade had cut cleanly through the steel, and that the mail beneath had nearly been severed as well.

By the time Dalton turned to the crowd of onlookers, the rain had washed away any evidence of his hate. His smile returning, he called for any and all to attend him as "he felt terribly in need of a strong drink."

As the crowd exited the courtyard, Veron stood alone. He still clutched the broken sword handle in his grasp, and he noticed that his strike had drawn blood. As the rain flowed from the jagged edges, it dripped a slight crimson upon the cobblestones. _If only Ott's words rang more true,_ he thought to himself. _If only Dalton could see beyond the challenge I represent to his authority, and his legend. He likely wished that I would die at the Crag_. Another chill ran down his spine.

* * *

Once within his quarters, he had sent word that he would be in need of a new sword. As Merrick left to see the order fulfilled, he gazed out the thick glass of the tower's window, watching the rain run down the panes and the sea rise and fall. Uncorking a wineskin, he sat back in his chair. _I should have requested that the smith attempt to repair my armor as well._ Taking a deep swig of his wine, he decided to do so in the morn. He wondered briefly as to the whereabouts of Eleyna and Elissa, but decided against sending for them. _Let them have their time to themselves. They shall be safe, Tommard promised to keep an eye on them at all times. After Codd, it is unlikely that any would trouble them anyways._ The Codds were a truly lamentable House, that much was certain. The door screeched as it was pushed open, and Veron was shocked to see that Torgon stood in the entryway.

"Might I enquire as to my Lord-Captain's health?" He asked, a grin flickering across his features.

Veron smiled. "You might, but then again, if you are hoping for any new impressive wounds you would be sorely disappointed."

Torgon feigned disappointment. "I had entertained hopes that the Maesters might have had to amputate your arm. Veron One-Arm sounds like someone out of a saga, does it not?

He nodded, unable to deny that it indeed could have been the name of a character of the tales of old.

"While true, I rather enjoy having the use of both of my arms." He said with a wry grin.

"Certainly. An arm for each salt wife."

Veron nodded gravely. "They entice me so, as you well know"

Torgon closed the door behind him. "Be that as it may, we need to discuss the realities of how we intend to proceed."

Veron nodded. He had dreaded having to have this conversation. In preparation, he took a deep swig of wine. Standing, he took both of Torgon's hands.

"I hope you know that what I feel for you is no laughing matter. To no longer feel quite so alone is a powerful respite from the world. I hope that I can bring you the same comfort." Pausing, he considered his next words carefully. "Torgon, there are no sagas or ballads for men like us. At least none that I've ever heard. I've never met another. I've heard whispers that in the Free Cities a man may live as one chooses, at least if he has the coin to afford pillow houses that accommodate his tastes. But our people harbor no such kindness. We are men of Iron, and despise weakness. For a long while, I thought myself sick. I hated myself for it." He laughed, bitterly. "To some degree, I still question whether we might both be suffering from some insidious affliction." He placed a hand upon Torgon's cheek. "I… I see no way that we could ever live any more freely than we do now unless we were to flee."

There was a warm understanding in Torgon's eyes. "I've… I've thought as much myself. But we cannot flee. We do not suffer from an insidious affliction. We _are_ men of Iron. We do not run from a fight… Besides, I could not ask you to abandon your sisters, or your friends, or crew. So what is there to do?"

Veron smiled. "We can enjoy these moments. To know that I have someone to care about, someone who understands me, and I him, is enough for now. Perhaps with time things will change for the better. But with a war afoot, we are surrounded by many who are permanently alert. We must be careful."

The hand he held tightened. "Is there not a way that we might be protected by your brother's reach? He is nearly a living legend amongst our people. If he could be made to understand, we could live much more freely. None would accuse the honored brother of the Red Kraken of anything. Even if they did, you could strike them down without fear of retaliation."

A chill ran down Veron's spine. _Dalton… Dalton must never know_. _The Red Kraken's entire legend is built around the unassailable image of a reaver of old. I am uncertain of my safety even now. To even allow him to suspect my true nature would be to ensure our deaths. The Kraken's reach is long, and its grasp waits just below the waves, waiting to drag me into the depths the moment I show weakness._ He shook his head.

"My brother must _never_ know of us. It would mean both of our deaths. He will do anything to protect his growing legend. He would never understand. If anything, mere rumors of our nature would be enough for him to act. The Drowned God damns kinslayers, but there are many who would be willing to bear the blade in his stead should he give the order. I fear we do not yet have enough allies to call upon. We must needs find friends without my brother's shadow. Men whose loyalty to us will remain even if my brother calls for my head."

Before he could speak any further, Torgon planted a firm kiss upon his lips.

A grin forced its way out, despite his resistance.

"I have been waiting to do that." His expression hardened. "But I understand your words. I will begin testing the waters. While Dalton is regarded by some to be a son of the Drowned God himself, some are not so taken by his reputation or actions. Once word gets out of your dissent at the Council, we may find that there are other captains who have a more realistic outlook and do not wish to see themselves, their ships, and their prizes of war consumed by dragonflame. Dalton cannot expect them to remain out reaving forever."

Veron nodded. "Let us proceed in that fashion." He gave Torgon's hand a squeeze. "Now go. We must needs be careful about these visits."

As Torgon wrenched the door open, a serving boy fell, knocked backwards by its outward swing. The firewood he had been carrying scattered about the hall. His eyes widened with terror as Torgon's form stood over him. He flinched when the Ironborn moved, but a shy smile returned to his face as his potential punisher offered him a piece of firewood from the floor.

"The Farmans may have been somewhat forgiving of clumsiness, but we men of Iron have no such proclivities."

With a wink, Torgon departed, having helped the boy gather his fallen burden.

"Would 'ee like some firewood, m'lord?" The boy asked, smiling cautiously.

Nodding, Veron held out his hand, taking two pieces, before sending the lad on his way. Laying them atop the already burning pile, he smiled. _We might just make this work_.

An hour later, his wives found him holding an empty wineskin in his grasp, warming his feet by the fire. Tommard, true to his word, begged his leave once they had been safely delivered to his chamber.

Eleyna entered first, clutching her doll tightly. Clearly exhausted from what must have been a trying day, Veron nodded to acknowledge her presence and allowed Elissa to help her change to a nightgown and be put straight to sleep.

Once the Westerling girl had appeared to finally drift away, Elissa moved a seat next to the fire, sitting next to him. She poured herself a cup of mulled wine and sat silently, sipping at it as she watched the flames dance and consume their prey. He was content to sit silently.

"Your… brother has tired of my sisters. The other men are afraid to lay hands upon them, for fear that Dalton will change his mind, but I fear that it is only a matter of time until their lust outpaces their fear."

Veron stared into the flames. In his mind's eye, he could still see his brother's look of freezing hatred. _He thinks me a rival, a potential usurper._ He missed the days when they fought with swords of wood upon the beaches of Pyke. _If I am already damned in his eyes, I see no reason to cower like a beaten dog._

He drew in his breath and turned to face her. "Where are they confined?"

"He sent them back to their quarters."

Standing, he grabbed a dirk from amongst his possessions. "Let us go and claim them. Let the men say I lust after my brother's leavings."

Elissa met his gaze with one of her own. While he had accepted that he'd never receive a look that ever resembled gratitude, he wagered that the one she gave him was damn close.


	30. Baela IV

**Baela IV**

She had first heard of her cousin's death when the gaoler delivered her cold porridge with a venomous grin. She had hoped against hope that the Queen would somehow be reconciled with her brother now that the war was lost. If not for her sake, then for the sake of her living sons. The days had drifted by in a haze, with little to suggest the passage of time other than the delivery of her meagre meals. At first, she had tried to communicate across the hall, but the gaoler had promised to cease feeding the lot of them if she continued. After that, she had sat in silence, sharing the moldiest or stalest parts of her bread with the rats that paid her visits.

When she had first woken, she had felt too numb to do anything. She had failed in all that she had striven to accomplish. Luke, Jace, and Joff were gone. With the deaths of the remaining loyal seeds, the Queen's cause was effectively over. No dragons could be marshalled for her cause. Baela doubted that any remained alive apart from Tyraxes, now riderless, and Moondancer, chained in the depths of the Dragonpit. Her mother's words haunted her from her dream. She did remain amongst the last of the Dragons. _But what am I to do? I've done naught for the Queen's cause. At first, I was prevented from flying. But when given the chance, I hesitated. I should've gone with Joff. Had we reached the Dragonpit, we could've made a difference, or died trying._ Such thoughts troubled her, and she had found it difficult to sleep much at all. She tossed and turned amidst the cold stone and the dirty rushes, troubled by the faces of ghosts.

They had come for the Queen on what must have been an early morn. The screech of her cousin's cell door woke her from her fitful slumber, and despite herself she sprang up, standing on the tips of her toes to try and see all that was transpiring. Hard men in cloaks of gold had led the Queen from her cell and past the cells where the remaining members of her family sat in confinement. Her cousin had been pale, her hair a mess, her formerly vibrant purple eyes having lost much of their luster. She still wore the simple accoutrements that she had worn the day they were taken. Baela watched silently as they led the Queen past her cell and up the worn stone steps towards the courtyard. She felt the urge to weep, but all her tears had been spent. Instead, she found herself hoping that Rhaenyra would do all she could to stand aside. _Aegon and Viserys are blameless. Please, cos, do not let them suffer for the woes we have brought upon the Usurper and his family._ She was most glad when the cells of her brothers remained undisturbed. She could barely make out the face of Aegon, tall for his age, watching his mother led away past his own cell. Tears ran silently down his face, leaving clear paths across his dirty skin.

And so it was that perhaps two hours later the gaoler arrived, possessed of a face that promised ill tidings and bearing unsweetened and icy porridge. As he slid her meal through the door, he pressed his fat face against the barred window, grinning sadistically.

"They took 'er 'ead only a few moments ago. King Eggon 'as returned, and word about the castle is that he ordered her to have a traitor's death on the block. Ever the honorable one, our King. No spectacle, just _justice_. If it'd been the doing of the _Princess,_ she'd likely 'ave ordered some gruesome affair. Do you know, little girl, how many men lost their tongues by 'er orders? 'Ad 'em ripped out with 'ot pincers, that 'un." Spittle flew as he spoke. "Heh. Maegor with teats indeed." His face contorted into a frown. "Serves 'er right. After the 'Ightower army arrived, bearing the Prince Daeron's body, all scarred and burnt, the city was howling for 'er blood. Ser Roxton killed 'er with a single stroke, bearing 'is blade _Orphan Maker_. Heh. Guess it lived up to its name."

Pulling away from the door, he stalked away, whistling as he went. Baela, despite her shock, had recognized the tune. It was a popular ditty amongst the smallfolk, about 'the Good King Aegon'. Her father had sung it for her as a child. She had mourned the loss of her cousin, but a part of her accepted her death, taking solace in the knowledge that her trials and sufferings were finally at an end. _So much death, and all for a circlet of gold or valyrian steel._

As she had spent the next few days in silence, she had turned the gaoler's words over and over in her mind. _The Prince Daeron is dead?_ Despite herself, she mourned her cousin. Of all of her uncle's sons, he had been the warmest, the least likely to hide barbed words behind a smiling countenance. He had lived in the shadow of his oldest brothers, always seeking to prove himself worthy of their glory. But the few times she had spent near him had taught her that his true love was his dragon, Tessarion. They had loved to soar amidst the clouds, her blue and bronze scales flashing brilliantly in the sun. _He died with only a few name days more than I_ , she thought to herself. It seemed a cruel fate to have died by the flames of the creatures he loved so well.

Daeron's death bothered her for more reasons than his youth and kindness, however. _The letter we received from the Lords at Tumbleton made no mention of his death._ A chill ran down her spine. _The letter bore his seal, in fact._ She remembered it now; it had arrived bearing the seals of several important lords. House Hightower, House Peake, House Roxton, and House Norcross had all affixed their seals, along with a seal that bore the image of corn that she hadn't recognised. Above them all had rested the three-headed dragon of her house, emblazoned proudly. _If those lords could lie about Daeron's demise, what other falsehoods and half-truths might have been concealed within its contents?_ The more she fixated on it, the more she found herself questioning parts of it. _While several great lords affixed their seals, several did not. Where were the ants of House Ambrose or the apple of the Fossoways or the lightning of the Leygoods?_ It was possible of course that they had perished in the initial attack, but if Daeron had been killed then that battle had certainly not gone as they had been told. She cursed herself for not picking up on such details sooner. _How could we have missed such things?_ Her eyes narrowed. _We were played for fools._ She began to feel the smallest of sparks within her breast; something she'd not felt for weeks. _Hope_. She pounded her fist against the stones of the cell, impacting amidst the rushes and sending several inquisitive rats scurrying in terror. The smallest of smiles broke out across her lips. As she allowed herself to hope, she felt another familiar emotion begin to stir inside her. Her rage, for so long left to lie dormant, began to burn once more. _Rhaenyra… Joff… dead because of lies._ White-hot wrath engulfed her. _You will both be avenged. I may be amongst the last of the dragons, but whilst I draw breath our enemies will feel my fury._

* * *

The next few days had been spent in relative silence. Baela had begun to eat more of what was delivered, spending her time pacing about her cell and attempting to reconstruct all she knew of the past few weeks. _Mayhaps it is my feverish mind, but I truly believe things are not as they seem_. She had attempted to subtly ply more information from the gaoler, in order to see whether he had seen or heard any news of the two traitorous seeds. He'd had nothing to say in response, his eyes narrowing at her question. She knew she ought to be more careful, but she had barely been able to contain her excitement at the lack of news. _Is it possible that all we thought we knew was wrong?_ Ser Addam had flown to gather Ser Gaemon and Ser Maegor. _It would have been three against three, certainly not impossible for there to have been a victory._ The speculation, while energising, was also maddening. The dark cell, which until recently had been somewhat of a respite from the hopelessness of the world now felt excessively confining. She had entertained the thought of attempting to tell Aegon and Viserys of her thoughts, but had hesitated both for fear of getting them punished as well as a reluctance to share the truly wasteful nature of the Queen's demise. _Oh cos, how could we have let our fears take such hold of us?_ She found herself missing her grandmother more than ever. _Grandmother would never have remained paralysed within the confines of the Red Keep. She'd have taken Meleys to investigate immediately._ All she had been told of her mother suggested that she'd have done the same.

As the days dragged on, she refrained from asking further questions of her captor, instead finding ways of spending her time that gave her some degree of purpose. She had taken to feeding two particularly large rats, and was pleased to see that they seemed to find the arrangement acceptable enough that they became her boon companions. Braver than most of their kind, they would stop only inches from her feet, their whiskers twitching expectantly while their black, beady eyes regarded with anticipation. The smaller of the two was missing one of its front paws, which inspired her to name it Aemond. The other larger and fatter one naturally became Aegon. She had smiled wickedly after deciding on their names, and had moved on to granting them titles befitting their stations. She had settled on Aegon's as _Lord of the Shitty Rushes_ and Aemond's as _Scourge of Moldy Crusts_. They seemed to accept their titles with all of the grace they could muster. After a few days in their company she decided that she enjoyed their limited time together far more than the entirety of the time she had spent with her petulant and murderous cousins.

She was in the deliciously ironic process of trying to teach Aegon to bow for a crumb when she heard voices echoing about the prison walls outside her cell door. She recognised the voice of her gaoler, but could not place the voices that accompanied him. Dismissing her companions, she drew herself up as her cell door screeched as it was wrenched open. Outside stood the gaoler, along with several men in gold cloaks. Standing before them was the knight in black and white that had killed Joff struck her during that terrible night. A chill made its way down her spine, despite her attempts at ensuring an inner calm. _Have they come to take my head?_ She refused to give them the satisfaction of observing her fear, so she forced herself to stand straight and return their gaze with a cold one of her own.

The knight of House Swann smirked. "So this little chit of a lass still has a spine after all? I would have thought I knocked it out of her the last time we crossed paths." His smile took a sharper edge. "You will observe that there are no more kitchen knives to menace me with, _my lady_."

Baela shrugged. "I'll find something else to make do with."

The knight nodded, feigning mirth. "Just like your father. The former King should have had his tongue ripped out of his head. If you don't learn to control yours, someone will order it taken." His dark smile continued to grow. "Then again, no word of your traitorous father has been heard of in quite some time. Perhaps someone finally put an end to his follies and pretensions."

At the news, Baela's defiance faltered. She had anticipated the worst, but had maintained hope he still lived. _I should have known the moment I saw him with my mother._ Fighting back tears, she regained her composure.

"If my father has fallen, I am certain that he did not fail to deal a grievous wound to whoever had the misfortune of facing him on the field of battle."

The Swann knight frowned, and Baela was pleased to see that her words had struck home. _Perhaps my father did get a chance to strike his foes before he fell. Did he find Aemond before the end?_

"Enough of this pathetic posturing. I have been sent to inform you that the King, in all his majesty and justice, has decided to offer you a chance at clemency. A great ceremony is to be held tomorrow to accept newfound allies, and he extends his hand to you in peace if you will renounce your formal allegiances and bend the knee."

Once more white-hot fury threatened to spill forth from her lips. But before she could deliver a scathing rebuke, she caught herself. _Insulting him further will earn me a beating and accomplish little. Getting out of this cell, however, could be fortuitous. Perhaps I could discover what has truly been transpiring._ Forcing herself to swallow her revulsion, Baela allowed her shoulders to slump. _They think me weak because of my sex. Let them see what they wish, for now_. Clutching her arms to her sides, she gave the slightest of nods. The knight smirked, believing himself to have scored a great victory. Turning, they exited her cell, leaving her to ponder what her next actions might be.

* * *

The scream of the iron hinge roused her from her fitful slumber. She couldn't recall when sleep had finally taken her, but assumed that it must have been very late in the night. Several men-at-arms entered, their tabards sporting the grey and white of House Hightower. Pulling her to her feet, they led her from her cell out of the cell block and into the castle yard. The predawn chill sank quickly though her sparse and tattered clothing. Her captors led her into one of the Red Keep's outbuildings, where a trio of stone-faced Septas awaited. Armed to the teeth with brushes, combs, and buckets of steaming water, they set about making her presentable the moment the guards departed. While their cleaning was by no means gentle, Baela welcomed the process, relishing the chance to be free of her filthy garments and the grime of the dungeon. Finding her silver-white hair to be too matted and resistant, they sheared it off without hesitation, leaving her head bare but for a few wisps of white. She resisted the urge to grin. _I suspect they think this process to be a humiliation. Little do they know that I've lived with closely-cropped locks for most of my life._ She found the water to be intensely hot, which helped to warm her frame and release it from the cold, icy clutches of winter.

Once the Faith's servants were satisfied with her condition, they presented her with a simple gown of black. She did not miss that it was adorned with a modicum of gold lace. _Would that it were red instead._ While she was uncertain of what fate awaited her, she had come to one conclusion. There would be no admission of guilt, no pleas for penance. _I will face my cousin today, and find the truth of what truly has transpired. Perhaps the war is not over, despite their attempts to make it so._ Emotions roiled within her. Fear, anticipation, anger, hope. Without a word, the Septas dismissed her from their clutches, allowing the men-at-arms to escort her back through the Keep's courtyards.

She was surprised when their path led them to the foot of the Red Keep's primary gatehouse. She had expected to be brought before the Iron Throne, but instead, saddled horses awaited. Atop a grey charger in the center of the group sat the knight of black and white, looking down at her darkly. Pulling her atop his horse, he wrapped his gauntleted hands tightly around her waist.

"I will give this warning but once, _my lady_. Attempt any sort of escape, and I will act upon the King's orders and cut you down. No friends of yours remain in the city. The King has given you but one opportunity to earn his clemency. Squander it, and you will join the Pretender in the Seven Hells."

Baela held her tongue. A retort would be satisfying, but useless. _Learn all you can. All may not yet be lost._

Once the others had mounted, the gate was opened and their party exited the Red Keep. They rode slowly down Aegon's High Hill, following the main thoroughfare and into the city below. The sights that greeted them were sobering. Buildings of all kinds, from manses to pot shops had suffered considerable damage. Some had been gutted by fires whilst others bore the scars of unhindered looting. The city was grey and dark, and a pall of ash seemed to pervade the very air. _One would have thought that the Usurper had brought Sunfyre's fiery wroth to bear upon the city._ As she looked more closely however, she could see that the city had suffered from a more natural fire. Wide swathes had burnt down, but one could see where its denizens had pulled nearby buildings down to cut the flames off from further fuel. The neighborhoods that had burned were haphazard, not in wide stretches that would suggest a dragon's ire. Furthermore, the widespread looting suggested a more chaotic sack, as opposed to the unbridled terror of a sudden attack from the skies. Lastly, it appeared that fighting had been widespread. While bodies did not lay scattered about the streets, she could see the darkened earth and cobblestones where they once had, and many a wall bore the red-brown stains of dried blood. _This city ate itself alive_ , she thought, suppressing a shudder. _These must be the scars of the riots that engulfed the city after the 'news' of Tumbleton._

The streets were largely empty of people, and the few they passed did not raise their eyes. The denizens of the city carried themselves with a cold indifference, and clutched their threadbare clothing about themselves tightly in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. _Could we have averted this disaster?_ Perhaps, she thought. _But my cousin would have needed to be a different Queen… a different woman. Her people needed the Realm's Delight, not the woman I knew in her last few weeks of life, so twisted by fear, betrayal, and mistrust that she could not distinguish between friend and foe._ Such thoughts were of no use now, however. The present was what mattered, and fighting for those who remained was what was most important. _The last of the dragons._ Many had been lost, but some remained. More, perhaps, than she even dared to believe.

Their slow ride through the city reached the apex of the Hill of Rhaenys, and the cavernous Dragonpit loomed before her, a great mountain of bronze and steel and stone. Its massive doors all remained closed, except for the central gates, which had been left open to allow for the entry of each procession. Standing resolutely at the entrance were the Dragonkeepers, clad in black plate. She had heard murmurs on the night of the riot that the Dragonpit had been accosted by a mob, but she saw little evidence of any damage. It appeared to have weathered the storm with few scars, and light still showed from within. _The light of dragons._ The Dragonkeepers' helms presented a uniform face to outsiders, so it was impossible to discern whether any of the men before her were those that had aided her in the past. _They likely did. The Dragonkeepers swear oaths of obedience to the Royal Family and to protect their mounts. I doubt that those oaths specify what one must do when dragon turns upon dragon, however._ It seemed likely that the knights before her felt obligated to serve whosoever sat the Iron Throne, regardless of their personal dispositions or beliefs. Regardless of their loyalties, they remained motionless to either side of her as the knight of House Swann dismounted his horse and handed it off to a retainer. Riding a horse into the Dragonpit was an excellent way to get oneself thrown from the saddle. The pit reeked of dragons, and the animals were wise enough to sense the danger of a predator.

While their horses were led away to an adjoining stable, Ser Byron was presented with a pair of golden shackles, which he affixed tightly around her wrists. _Wrought of gold or iron, shackles they remain_ , she thought to herself. Standing straight, she accepted them without complaint. The cold metal left little doubt as to her status in Aegon's court. _Whilst they may pledge to remove them in return for an oath of loyalty, I suspect a golden cage will quickly replace them_. She had no intention of humiliating herself, however. Not now, not ever. Come what may, she would live or die supporting her friends and family. _Whilst we may be bound by blood, the Usurper is no honored kin of mine._ The slightest of wry grins flickered across her lips. _I suspect he feels the same about me._

A cold gauntleted hand on her shoulder prompted her to begin her journey forward. As she was guided into the main chamber, she was once again taken aback by just how vast the Dragonpit was. The steps led into a massive subterranean hall, carved deeply into the Hill of Rhaenys itself. Benches lined the central chamber, and great bronze braziers had been placed evenly down the length of the hall, illuminating its entirety with dancing light and shadow. Maester Gerardys had once told her the Dragonpit's central hall could seat eighty thousand comfortably. Even if that was the case, today's audience was nowhere near that number. Many rows of benches were filled by the shadowy forms of knights, men-at-arms, and the few men and women of Aegon's court that had survived Rhaenyra's conquest via imprisonment.

Banners of the most powerful Green Houses hung from the pillars supporting the ceiling far above, and Baela surveyed each as she passed. The first she passed were banners she was less familiar with, banners she assumed belonged to knightly houses of the Reach. As she reached the point at which the pews were full of seated persons, she made a personal note of each banner hung in pride of place. Firstly, to her left hung three red chevronels on ermine. _Rosby, the faithless friends._ To her right, A white lamb bearing a golden chalice. _Stokeworth._ Nearby hung a banner bearing black diamonds on a yellow field. _Darklyn_ , she thought with dismay. Next on the left, black cross on a white field. _Norcross,_ she remembered _._ On the right, a series of interlocking golden chains on a sky blue field. _Roxton._ Passing by the red, blue and green stripes of House Strong, they drew nearer and nearer to the Usurper. As they approached the front of the hall, they passed the banners placed in the most prestigious positions. On her left hung a great orange banner, with three black castles affixed proudly upon it. _Peake, self-proclaimed lords of the Dornish marches._ Finally, on her right, the white tower crowned with roaring flames. _Hightower. They might as well have hung that above the throne itself._ Instead, in the center of the hall, displayed above the Usurper himself, hung a great black banner whose silk seemed to drink in the firelight. Upon it danced a gold three-headed dragon, roaring defiantly.

While she was aggrieved to see that the Stokeworths and Rosbys had returned to the Green fold, she was not surprised. _Rhaenyra did have their lords executed. With their loyalty, and with that of the Darklyns, Aegon can command the obedience of the Crownlands as far north as Duskendale._ Baela took some solace in the banners that she did _not_ _see_. _Where is the Mother's Face of the Gracefords? The ants of the Ambroses? The apple of the Fossoways? The lightning of the Leygoods? All are said to have marched with the Hightowers._ As she turned her eyes to the Usurper, she studied the faces assembled before her. Sitting atop a litter that served as an impromptu throne was her cousin. Resting on his armored lap was Blackfyre itself, the sword of Kings. Its black Valyrian steel rippled darkly in the firelight. To his right sat an old man wearing a golden necklace of interlocked hands, whose face bore an exhausted visage. Whilst he appeared to have once carried a great weight, his skin hung thinly, either due to the rigors of campaign or some other affliction. _A Hightower_ , she assumed by his colors. To the Hightower's right sat the Dowager Queen, wearing a beautiful gown of green silk, accentuated by golden highlights. Her hair had been braided and atop her head she wore a golden circlet. Her eyes regarded Baela with a fiery mixture of triumph and a clear desire for revenge. Seated to her right, with a cane resting across his twisted leg, was the unmistakable cool and calculating Lord Larys Strong, who studied her intently.

On the Usurper's left was an empty seat, upon which the dancing stag of House Baratheon had been affixed. _How kind of them to save Lord Borros a seat_ , she thought mockingly. _He couldn't be bothered to fight, but I'm sure he'd protest mightily if not offered an appropriately grandiose appointment._ To Borros' prospective left was a Lord who sat as if his spine was wrought of iron. Grey hair and grey beard were affixed upon a hard visage, and he too regarded her with cold, unsympathetic eyes. _Lord Peake, judging by his doublet._ To Lord Peake's left stood a tall man, clothed in Roxton colors. His hands rested upon a hilt whose blade bore the unmistakable ripples of Valyrian steel. He too regarded her with dark eyes that unsettled her despite herself. She resisted the shiver that sought to force itself down her spine. _He stands in the position of King's Justice. A title that rings all the more hollow in this court._

While the Dowager Queen, Lord Strong, Lord Peake, and the King's Justice regarded her, the Usurper appeared absorbed in the ceremony that had been ongoing as she entered. Two boys knelt at his feet, wearing the colors of Stokeworth and Rosby. _The new lords of their houses. Their claims would have been passed over, had my father's will prevailed._ The two boys, who likely did not possess twenty name days between them, were prostrated at the feet of the Usurper, swearing their vows of eternal obeisance. _The Usurper_ , she thought as she regarded him. _My cousin._ Despite herself, she felt the barest twinge of regret that things had come to pass as they had. When she studied his face, it was impossible not to see her uncle. Despite his faults, and the fact he insisted that they were not Princesses, Baela had loved King Viserys in her own way. He was a man with a great love of his family, a love that could not, and would not, ever be completely set aside despite their quarrels all about him. _Even to the end he turned his gaze aside from the rancor that infested his own House. He wanted to believe that his children, his grandchildren, and even his defiant brother could be made to act as he wished to see them._ Instead, blood had begun to flow only a few moments after his passing. _While his heart still beat, he could avert the slaughter. But the moment it stopped, years of plotting, hatred, and betrayal poured forth._

When she studied her cousin's face, she saw her uncle, but her uncle in a twisted form. _The King's face was never so marred by hate and mistrust. It had grown red with wroth at times, but he'd have much preferred it to grow red with laughter._ Looking at his son was akin to looking at another Viserys, a Viserys whose reign had brought no joy. The resemblance was also scarred by the kiss of flame. _Grandmother left him something to remember her by,_ Baela observed sadly. The Usurper's visage was akin to a candle. Half his face was that of a handsome, if a bit overfed, Prince, whilst the other was akin to melted wax. Below a drooping and scarred eyebrow, a bloodshot violet eye gazed forth suspiciously.

The process of reaffirming feudal oaths did not take much longer. As the two young lords swore by the Seven to maintain their oaths unto death, Baela scanned those assembled for any other faces of note. Aemond's self-assured and cruel face, marred by Luke's knife so long ago, was notably absent. _Mayhaps my father did find him, in the end_. Daeron's guarded but sympathetic face was also absent, confirming the goaler's words. She quickly scanned the entrances of the dragons' enclosures, but saw no sign of Vhagar or Tessarion. _Even if Aemond or Daeron had somehow been alive but in recovery, their dragons would still be roosting within the Dragonpit. It seems that both have fallen._ Lastly, Helaena too was missing. Baela's stomach felt twisted into a knot. _It seems the rumors are true. The loss of her sons was too much for her to bear._ Guilt tugged at her heart. _And how could she be blamed for retreating into madness? Those assassins may as well have killed her. T'would have been less cruel._ At times, when Baela thought of Helaena's sons, guilt and revulsion clawed at her. _Gone was the Princess who loved to dance and sing._ Some of Baela's earliest and happiest memories were of the times Viserys and his children were feasted at Dragonstone. Helaena was shy, but loved to whisper secrets and laugh once she found those she could trust. When she had learned that Baela and Rhaena were ticklish, she had reduced them both to gasping, wheezing laughter before Aegon had ordered her to leave them be.

She quickly steeled herself against reminiscing. _Such things are too painful now._ She could not help but feel as though she was somehow implicit in Rhaenyra's crimes. _We swore vengeance on the day we were told of Luke's death. But were Helaena and her sons truly the architects of our suffering?_ Baela knew the answer, and it brought her no solace. Forcing such thoughts from her head, she thought of her dream. _For better or for worse, I am amongst the last of the dragons. I must keep the embers alight. If I look back, I am lost._

When a retainer brought his staff upon the cold stone floor, she snapped to the present. A retainer, dressed in the black and gold of the Usurper, rapped his staff upon the floor once more. The Rosby and Stokeworth girls had been led away quietly by men bearing their house colors.

"The _Lady_ Baela Targaryen, who has come as a supplicant begging the mercy of the _King_ Aegon Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

For a moment, the two of them regarded one another silently. The hand of her escort tightened on her shoulder. To combat the emotions roiling within her, she went over what she had observed. _It seems certain now. Our enemies lied. I know not what happened, but it seems that the Prince Daeron and the two traitors were slain over Tumbleton. My father and the Prince Aemond are also missing._ Her eyes narrowed. _They brought me here to beg forgiveness, to humble myself before them and hundreds of men and women. I will do no such thing. I will not allow the sacrifices of those who have gone before me to be for naught._ She waited silently for her cousin to speak.

"Cousin, you come before me at last." He finally spoke, his voice dripping with venom. He paused, a smile as thin as a razor's edge affixed to his lips. "So enters the _Lady_ Baela Targaryen, daughter to a traitor-Prince and cousin to a Pretender. For all of your supposed fire, you come before me now as a supplicant." He rose from his throne, raising his arms and his voice to speak to those assembled. "It is the sign of a great King to dispense justice throughout the realm. It was necessary to put the Pretender and her pretensions to death, but now I will hear the pleas of one who comes before me to beg forgiveness. Let us not forget that justice can be dispensed by royal pardon instead of the headsman's block. Let my _undisputed_ reign begin with a gesture of clemency, as the great Jaehaerys' did." Returning to his seat, his eyes once more met her gaze.

Baela clenched her fists tightly. In her mind's eye, Joffrey passed her the King piece once more. _I'm ready now, Joff._

She took a moment to look at those assembled around her, and those seated before her. She scanned each of the dragon pits lining the edge of the chamber. Shrykos and Morghul remained coiled, whether asleep or cowed in the presence of so many unknown faces she could not say. Dreamfyre too remained coiled and unmoving, her light blue scales glinting in the firelight. Tyraxes stirred against its chains when her eyes fell upon it, smoke rising from its nostrils. Finally, she found her Moondancer. Its pale green scales and pearl horns glinted, and she felt a stirring within her when she realised its eyes were upon her. _Addam was right, she has grown so!_ She thought with a fierce sense of pride. Baela once more felt the fires of rage begin to dance within her. She took a breath, and began to speak.

"Can the reign of a coward ever truly begin in earnest?" She asked, her eyes on Aegon. She turned to face the knight of House Hightower, who had begun to visibly shrink back in his seat. "When your kin fought and died fighting _his_ war, where was your King?" Turning to Lord Peake, she continued. "Lord Peake, while the dragons danced and your men burned at Tumbleton, where was _your King?_ " Her voice had begun strong, but now began to rise in intensity and volume. "When his brothers fought beneath _his_ banners, where was their _King_? When his wife and mother were taken prisoner, where was their _King_?" She drew in her breath, and turned to face those assembled, wrenching herself free momentarily from her captor's grasp. "My Lords, the man who sits that throne is no true Dragon; he _hid_ whilst others killed, and continued to _hide_ whilst they died! While he might carry the name of the Conqueror, I can think of no man less deserving of his crown!"

She stood, and scanned as many faces as she could that stood assembled before her. For a moment, the Dragonpit sat in stunned silence. None moved, and none spoke. She stood until the gauntleted hand of the Swann knight wrenched her around and forced her to her knees. The Usurper's face had swollen purple with rage, his violet eyes bloodshot and fiery with hatred.

"I was a fool for expecting anything but _futile_ insolence and disrespect from the likes of _you._ " He whispered.

The knight of House Roxton stepped forward, bringing his Valyrian sword to bear.

"My king, let me strike her head from her shoulders here and now, to make an example of her."

Alicent shot to her feet. "My King, take her head now! None may speak in such a manner and be allowed to live!"

Aegon's eyes darted between the two of them, and he opened his mouth to give the order. Baela closed her eyes. _Let them say I died with honor. Let them say I died a dragon._ Before the words could be spoken, however, a roar echoed around the Dragonpit. As she opened her eyes, Moondancer stood on her hind legs, struggling against her chains. Beating her wings, her mount thrashed about her chamber, before sending a blinding blast of white flame at the ceiling. A few cells over, Tyraxes rose, roaring his greetings, and shot red-hot flames in response. Soon, Morghul, Shrykos, and even Dreamfyre had risen, roaring their challenges, and flames shot through the bars of their enclosures and danced about the ceiling. Some in the audience screamed and began to flee, and Dragonkeepers rushed from their stations with whips in order to calm the beasts. Baela smiled. _Thank you, Moondancer._ As the dragons were forced back, their chains appearing to hold, Aegon turned once more to her, his face still darkened with rage. As the chaos died down, he opened his mouth as if to speak once more, but was narrowly preempted by Lord Peake.

"My King, whilst her words were those of an impudent child, and deserve a most harsh _chastising_ , I feel I must advise taking her head. If we kill any more of our hostages, our enemies will have little reason to believe that we will allow any to live. They will have little reason to believe that their own lives will be safe if they bend the knee."

Aegon swallowed, his eyes narrowing. Lord Larys spoke next.

"My King, Lord Peake's words are well worth heeding. Our ability to negotiate with our enemies diminishes with every execution. There have been sightings of dragons at Harrenhal. We cannot grant the Pretender's thugs any more reasons to attack the capitol. Their low birth already disposes them towards violence, as any Maester could tell you."

Baela could not believe her ears. _Dragons at Harrenhal? Low birth? Gaemon and the seeds live!_ She wanted to shout and laugh in the maddening excitement, but she knew she dare not make a sound.

The Usurper clutched the hilt of Blackfyre so tightly that his knuckles turned bone white.

"And what have you to say, my Hand? You too have proven a veritable _font of mercy_ ever since your arrival. Do you agree with the sentiments of my advisors?"

Baela turned her eyes to the Hand, who had grown a pale and utterly disconcerting shade of grey.

"While the maid has indeed sullied your honorable name, my King, she remains a child. The Seven-Pointed Star always errs on the side of mercy, and the Mother above would surely look kindly upon you for finding a suitable, yet just punishment."

Upon the conclusion of his remarks, the ancient knight took a deep swig of a wineskin he had produced from behind his seat. He ran a hand through what remained of his hair shakily.

The Usurper's face had returned to a relatively calmer angry shade of red. He steepled his fingers as he weighed the advice of his councilors. Finally, he spoke.

"While a mere child does kneel before me, her words were both treasonous and insulted the Royal Person. Such acts cannot go without a suitable _chastisement_ , to use the words of Lord Peake." Pausing, a cold and cruel smile began to take hold, made all the more ghoulish by his burn scars. "One of the Old King's greatest accomplishments was the consolidation of the Royal Laws throughout the Kingdom. If I remember my Maester's lessons correctly, I believe that King Jaehaerys ascribed a very _specific_ punishment for the sort of _seditious libel_ we have just heard uttered before us."

As realization dawned on the faces of those assembled, the Dowager Queen smiled wolfishly whilst a cruel smirk danced upon the face of Lord Peake. Lord Strong remained unreadable whilst Ser Roxton grinned savagely.

Aegon continued: "For her lamentable crime of _seditious libel_ , I condemn the Lady Baela Targaryen to be branded with the letters SL upon the left side of her face. Let the branding, and the subsequent ruination of her womanly beauty, serve as punishment for her treason."

Gasps echoed about the hall. As the realisation that she was not to be killed dawned on her, Baela fought the urge to vomit as the anxiety within her dissipated partially. _I'm sure the Usurper is confident that I will be appropriately chastised, but I'll trade my 'womanly beauty' for my head any day. Besides… a dragon has no fear of heat_. Despite her attempts at reassurance, however, she did not feel the fear dissipate.

* * *

The knight of black and white had escorted her with the minimum of civility back to her cell, casting her inside with a harsh shove. As she awaited the arrival of her punishers, she tried all sorts of things to keep her mind off of her impending fate. Try as she might, she feared what was coming. Nonetheless, she steeled herself in the face of her fate. _I am a dragon, and I stood tall where others failed. I did not let my friends and family down. If I must be made to suffer for my 'impudence' and 'treason' I will bear such marks with pride._

The scream of her cell door's metal hinge once more announced the arrival of guests. In the darkness of the cell, the light emanating from the pail where the hot coals were carried was unmistakable. A thin iron handle stuck up from where it was kept heated. The light of the coals illuminated the face of her gaoler, but he did not enter alone. Standing in the dim red light was the Usurper himself, his marred face grinning wickedly in the light. Behind the two men stood men-at-arms clad in the black and gold of the king, their faces immutable and cold. She stood, forcing herself to stand tall in the face of her captors.

"As I am certain you were once taught, Cousin, a _wise_ and _just_ King must be willing to carry out his own sentences." Aegon spoke, an odd light in his eyes.

Baela clenched her fists at her sides. "Do your _duty_ , _Usurper_."

The men-at-arms rushed forward, shoving her against the cold and dank wall of her cell. In the corner, she spotted both Aegon and Aemond cowering, their whiskers twitching in fear. _Everything will be alright,_ she thought, mentally attempting to calm them. The Usurper withdrew the brand slowly, the letters SL glowing white hot against the dark of the dungeon. She gritted her teeth, determined to bear whatever came. As it approached, she could feel its heat coming in waves off of the metal. She struggled against the vice of her captors, but to no avail. For a moment she felt it just before it made contact with her skin, and her eyes closed reflexively. When the metal connected, the pain was so overwhelming she began to scream despite herself. Her last conscious thought was the revulsion she felt at the smell of cooking meat, realising it was _her._

She awoke some time later, sprawled amongst the rushes. Her entire body felt aflame, but she shivered nonetheless. In the silence, she curled into a ball, fighting the corrosive grip of her fever. Sweat beaded all over her, and when some droplets trailed towards the still burning wound upon her face, she bit back a scream. Fighting back tears, a voice spoke in her head, a voice she realized with some confusion was both her own, and not. _You have survived your greatest trial yet. A Targaryen, truly._ Hugging herself, she pulled her legs to her chest in a futile attempt to ward off another bout of shivering.

She flinched as the door of her cell once more screamed open. In the darkness, she struggled to make out who entered. One held the door as two others entered, closing it behind them. She cowered at their approach, her feverish mind frightened that the Usurper might've decided to return with some other form of punishment. Something within her told her that that didn't make sense. Besides, none of the visitors walked with a limp. In unison, they knelt beside her, pulling what seemed to be cloaks back from their faces. In the darkness, her eyes strained to make out who these strange men were, when all of the sudden, one lit a torch.

While she expected to be greeted with the cruel and twisted face of Aegon, or the mocking grin of the gaoler, something else entirely greeted her in the darkness. Three faces, bearing smiles, pug noses, and eyes and hair of brown. Gingerly, Jacaerys placed a comforting hand over her scar, and when he touched her, the pervasive burning subsided. Tears flowed unhindered down her cheeks. She wanted to beg their forgiveness, to apologize for failing them when they needed her most, but try as she might, she could not speak. Something about the way they looked at her told her that did not matter, however.

Jace spoke first. "I must beg your forgiveness, for we've not spoken in a while, Cos. But we all wished to speak with you once more before we departed." He paused, his face growing a bit more serious. "What you did took the strength of kings. Your bravery was an inspiration to us all."

Luke then spoke up. "Few get opportunities to show such resolve, and fewer have the strength to stay the course when given them."

Finally Joff spoke, after laying a hand on her shoulder. "We could not have asked for a greater champion, Baela. Burning within you is fire enough to keep the embers alight." He grinned, softly. "But I think you knew that already. When your time came, you were _ready_."

With that, they stood. Jace, giving her a kiss on the forehead, smiled sadly.

"We're all sorry to leave you Baela. Would that we could fight alongside you." He sighed. "Our war is over." His brown eyes gazed deeply into hers. "I fear, however, that yours has not yet ended."

Drawing their cloaks back over their heads, they turned, quietly extinguishing their torch and passing silently out into the hall. Baela strained with all her might to rise and follow them, but instead, she felt the inky tendrils of sleep begin to grab hold of her once more. _Goodbye, Joff. Goodbye Luke. Goodbye Jace._


End file.
